


Rubies and Emeralds

by shadowintheshade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood and Injury, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Consensual Underage Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fear of snakes, Fluff, Frottage, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Love/Hate, M/M, Married Couple, Nightmares, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21503884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowintheshade/pseuds/shadowintheshade
Summary: A series of Harry/ Draco mini fics and one - shots mostly centred around an AU in which they eventually got married. Some are angst, some porn, some fluff, some crack - some odd mixtures of all genres but each will come with it's own notes and warnings at the start if necessary. Not all chapters are E Rated and the "Underage" warning I've given it is for Consensual underage with two boys of the same age only. Will add more tags as more chapters are added.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 11
Kudos: 128





	1. Night Terrors

**Happily Married AU, angst, hurt/comfort, some years after the battle of Hogwarts, nightmare-centric. Sort of T-rated probably? :-)**

**1.**

**Night Terrors #1**

Sleep has never come easily to Harry, but these days, he supposes, on the whole, that he's almost glad of it. When he does sleep it is lightly - again it always has been - but he supposes he is glad of that too. Some nights, like tonight, he finds himself staying awake long after Draco has fallen asleep, just sort of knowing it's going to be one of those nights. It's cold, for starters, and there's a breeze coming in from under the window. If it was up to him, it would be open a crack to let the air in – stuffy bedrooms have not been a thing for him ever since the cupboard under the stairs. He knows it's been about fifteen years but in these ways, as in so many ways, that cupboard has never quite left him - or he has never left it.

Anyway, he doesn't get to sleep with the window open; Draco prefers it closed and he'll grumble if it's otherwise, and, as more or less per usual he gets his own way, just like he got his own way about the light they leave on in the hall all night because he _just prefers it that way._

He's scared of the dark and they both know it, but Harry would not actually be mean enough to say so, just like he would never actually have argued that one. The dark, he thinks, even after all this time, even when to all awareness there is nothing lurking in it, is still a thing to be feared and he cannot blame Draco wanting that hall light.

He does not blame Draco for anything. He hasn't for years now, even before they were married.

Here it comes, he knew it would; a whistle of air from between the window panes, the nearby rush of the sea carried in on it, a whimper and Draco stirs in his sleep, clutching the duvet – most of the duvet actually, but like with everything Harry does not really mind – actually he keeps a spare pile of blankets next to his side of the bed for when he finds himself totally uncovered at night and utterly unable to prise even a corner out of the tight little bundle in the bedclothes. Then after the whimper a soft little moan; a choked, frightened noise and a pained swallowing sound. The noise that comes out when you're trying to scream in the dream, but you choke on it and the strangled sound hisses up from the throat. It starts. He rolls over, kisses the head that starts to turn on the pillow, hair like feathers, skin like moonlight, like trying to take care of a sliver of starlight.

_It's alright,_ he whispers, _it's alright, shhh love, sshhh it's alright._

Sometimes this is enough, if not immediately -

_It's alright, I'm here, I've got you, you're safe._

Sometimes. Not today.

Next comes the twisting, jerking away from him, fighting with the sheets until the skin beneath Harry's fingers feels sweaty and shivering, as though the battle with the blankets is a losing one, inarticulate noises too that rise into a recognisable _nononononononono._

He will never not hate this. He will never not be there, never shy away from helping.

“Don't let it eat me!”

Draco sits up awkwardly, staring with wide frightened eyes, looking around him wildly as though _it_ could be there in the room, in this cottage in the South Downs where nothing terrible or evil has ever happened. He looks surprised to find nothing there, but still stares at Harry with those wide open, scared and wondering eyes that do not understand _anything_ right now, and his breathing is ragged, coming out in gulps like he is trying not to scream. Sometimes the screaming part _is_ next, sometimes it goes on for a long time and Harry bears it because he gets it, because he has heard his own soul scream like that enough times himself. Sometimes, after all, this all goes the other way around, but not as often. He's been building walls against the things that hurt him since he can remember; Draco hasn't. He's made himself hard in so many ways with all those walls; Draco hasn't. He simultaneously finds it adorable and despairs at his beloved's fragility. It does not matter; love, he has come to reason, is not a series of weights and measures, not when it goes both ways- it is not a balancing act, it is what the other needs when they need it, what each cannot help but to give, in the end it always evens out, no matter what.

So, not the screaming this time. This time Draco bursts into tears and throws himself face forward into Harry's chest, holding on for dear life, and it's like he's rescuing him from that burning room for the millionth time. He knows now, after so many years, that they will never stop rescuing each other; they do so again every day, over and over again.

Draco cries messily, somehow this is a shock to Harry every single time; he still hasn't forgiven himself for the first time he saw Draco cry; how could he forget, after all. He should have stopped at least for half a second to ask what was wrong, rather than just, _I know what you did_ and an attack he realises now was not remotely deserved. Maybe that's why he supposes he _has_ to be there every time now – because he could never let this boy cry alone in a bathroom again, even if the boy is nearing thirty. He's still such a child when he cries, it rips at the heart like a frantic creature scrabbling at him.

So he holds him, so he rocks him gently like a child, so he strokes his hair and lets Draco hold on too tightly and he feels himself almost cry himself because Draco has this effect on him, he always has – when he's sad, he is sad, when he's happy Harry smiles, if he's angry – well that one is perhaps more of a problem, since when he is angry Harry finds himself getting angry too, and they clash, they clash, they still clash a thousand times a day, waves breaking on the sand, each of them the water each of them the land.

And Draco shakes and shivers like the air before a storm, and Harry fears for the thousandth time that the mischievous snatch of cold air from outside might steal him away, but he never lets it and sure enough eventually he gulps and hiccups his way to a simple sniffling, wiping his nose on Harry's pyjama sleeve and making a little _heh_ sound of pitiful amusement when Harry sighs about it. Finally he tries to talk, to explain himself, he always feels as though he needs to explain, excuse, deny these moments -

“It was – it was -”

“I know,” he says, because he does, he can recognise just about every one of Draco's nightmares by now, but Draco has to say it anyway, as though naming it is at least something he can do towards facing the fear -

“-the snake again – Professor Burbage -”

Harry nods because he guessed that already. Because he has carried Draco through this one a hundred times. He knows that sometimes he is the one being eaten by the snake, sometimes Draco is being eaten himself, sometimes it's his mother or his father or anyone he has ever loved – sometimes it simply happens exactly as it happened – it is just their old Muggle Studies professor who Draco never even liked. And sometimes, that is part of the whole problem – he knows this because Draco feels the need to say her name every time it's her – as though he killed her himself. Once he told Harry that he had – or at least he might as well have, it all jumbles together in Draco's head until he's the worst person that ever lived and there was a time – they both know it, when Harry would have said that was true. A time when Harry was an idiot.

He thought Burbage was an idiot. He has told Harry many times, like this, curled up and sniffing in bed, half shaking, half still crying. He mocked her in school, scorning her classes – which he never actually attended - her appearance, her mannerisms, her views. He would have hated her, he told Harry, if he had considered her worthy of even that consideration. He thought she was ridiculous, backwards, a joke. He did _not –_ and Harry had to wheedle this out of him like untangling jewellry – ever think she deserved to die, and he certainly did not want her eaten by a snake. In fact Draco, Harry realised only after a very long time, never did, never would, wish anybody dead and hated physical violence, backing off from it every time like you'd back away from a slug.

(“I mean except that time you kicked me in the face,” Harry pointed out on one occasion when the mood had lightened enough for him to do so.

“That's different -” Draco had waved it away with an airy flick of the wrist - “You have an extremely kickable face, Potter.”)

“It was my fault,” he said, more than once - “All my fault.”

“It was _not,”_ Harry said firmly, his first impulse the easy need to dissuade him from this train of thought because it is so obviously ridiculous and self destructive. But he can see where it comes from – he saw their teacher killed – right there on the table in front of him- he could have touched the body just before the snake unhinged her jaw. He would probably have nightmares about witnessing something like that himself – he _does_ have nightmares about every killing curse he has ever witnessed – so yes the next _logical_ step – having been in no position to be permitted to cry or scream or even react at the time – was to blame himself, start screaming at night and develop an absloute terror of snakes (which is a whole extra level of shame for a Slytherin, Harry has long since discovered).

“You didn't do it, Draco. Voldemort did it. You're not to blame, not for anything.”

He knows Draco will never believe _that,_ but if he says not _anything_ he hopes the overkill to Draco's mind might at least register as there being _something_ he's not to blame for.

This time at least, when Draco stops crying, he does not seem to need the usual reassurances, and perhaps that's something at least; besides, it's been three nights since the last nightmare which might actually be a record. Small steps, Harry thinks. He just lifts his face from Harry's top, grimaces apologetically, half guiltily -

“Did it again,” he mutters - “Sorry.”

Harry shakes his head, because he doesn't need to be sorry and he doesn't need to tell him that.

“S'been eight years – should be over it by now.”

“Should you?” Harry raises an eyebrow as aggravatingly as he knows how – “Didn't know there was a rule book, Malfoy, you must have nicked it back in first year.”

Draco's mouth twists back into the old smile, the real one, not the sneer or the smirk, but the one from the boy who first offered to be friends; second name terms is always their code, as it it were, that things are alright again, the disdain with which they say them a humorous parody of what it once was.

“Shut up Potter.” Draco kisses him on the cheek - “Go to sleep.”

_Yeah,_ Harry thinks, curling around his idiot protectively, Draco wriggling for a tedious length of time, packing blankets around himself, clutching a pillow, and wriggling his back against Harry's chest _forever_ until he finds the right place where they fit perfectly – _I will now._

Outside and down through the fields, the waves crash gently upon the shingle; somewhere out over the sea the gulls call sleepily in the dark each to each. The wind whispers lovingly through the old stone walls and the blankets are soft, the bed warm and Harry smiles because there is so much to smile about – there was a time he never imagined there could be. In the warm dark of shadow and the gold of the hallway light he nods off halfway to sleep -

“ _Potter -”_ A little voice whines, “ - fix the _window –_ there's a _breeze.”_

He almost yells. _If I didn't love you,_ he thinks – _I would hate you beyond measure._ He trails a hand under his pillow for a wand -

“ _Fenestra repare,”_ he sighs.

__x__

**This is my first Drarry so be kind? Idk how it's taken me this long to ship this I swear! :-) Anyway here I am now. One note: The title of this whole fic is a nod to the person who sent me a message about a Thorki fic I wrote absolutely years ago called "A Study in Crimson and Green" - from which title she said had been expecting Drarry, I had to apologise and say sorry no not this time though I'm sure it's something i will write one day - seems like my sort of ship....it's been a while but here it is :-)**


	2. Ivory and Gold

**Porn with feelings, adult au - probably the same au as the previous one but earlier in the timeline, with flashbacks to teenage porn (they're both 15).**

**2\. Ivory and Gold**

This isn't the first time – not even since they were adults – the _first_ first time was lifetimes ago when they were still too young for it to have been even decent. But there are a thousand first times, different sights and moods and angles that leave them feeling like those children again, children who should have got a grip so much sooner in so very many ways.

Moonlight suits Draco best. Harry has always thought it, doesn't mean he didn't light candles all the same. This is their first time, after all – except it isn't, except it is. All of those angry rushed exchanges in closets and empty classrooms, all of the times he imagined actually seeing Draco naked – imagined it so much it feels more like a memory now – more beautiful than he imagined it, but different. He sheds his clothes like a snake, kneeling his way into bed with a phrase on the tip of his brain that does not make it to his mouth – _the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold –_ if he remembers rightly the context wasn't as sweet as it sounded, but the words would never make it out of his mouth anyway, that would be romantic and he doesn't get _romantic_ with _Malfoy -_

“ _The curves of your lips re-write history -”_

That was the rest of it, it slips out of him when he leans in for a kiss, half embarrassed because it is different this time, this time there's moonlight on the bed and a boy who's not a boy any more, who will always be a boy, just like he will, and he's a part of the moonlight and Harry is a part of the candlelight and they mix silver and gold into each other, haloed in a light that does not really exist.

“Poetry Potter? Didn't know you had it in you.”

“Shut up Malfoy.” He never uttered three words more tenderly. It sounds almost like he might be saying something else. He has to kiss sentiment away, but it's hard not to _be_ soft when those lips are _so_ soft, hard to hide behind hating Draco when he's so beautiful in this light, but then _I hate you – oh you're beautiful,_ has always been of one thought in his head. And it's true, he's almost ethereal, except he's not because he's a bastard and it should be positively sacreligious to pin down a moonbeam and fuck it but he's never been much for religion.

Nevertheless, _lie back_ he whispers, terribly afraid that tonight could break all kinds of resolves; he feels himself very much in danger of saying all those things he has managed to go so long without saying – _all those things?_ he asks himself; it feels like many, but it's really just the same thing over and over and over – _I love you I love you I love you –_ it's right there like an unforgivable curse, crying out to be cast from the back of his tongue, making his mouth dry and his throat feel thick.

Sacrilegious maybe, but these kisses feel more like worship than anything he has ever dared, and when he raises his head from Draco's neck, he can see those pale eyes glitter in the moonlight, and when he blinks fiercely there's silver sliding down his cheeks. He always dreamt of worship. of course he did; but his eyes are big and wide with surprise all the same. He hardly moves but seems to give himself to Harry with every touch, every kiss that maps him out, and the boy who lived never thought he could cry for joy, as if like so many things it was only ever a phrase, signifying nothing, but he's close now, thinking _there is no part of you I could not kiss, mine now, all of you –_ though he would never say it – not the second part at least, never even assume it even though every line of tension in Draco's body asks to be claimed, to be made over, all the sharp lines and angles of him begging to be softened but incapable of asking it in words. Harry cannot state ownership and when his kisses reach the inner elbow of the left arm he remembers why. Draco freezes at that pause, tries to pull his arm away to hide the mark, squirming like a vampire twisting its way out of the sunlight, but he cannot – Harry has always been the stronger, and he will not let him; he carries on his kisses all the way down to the wrist, pressing determined lips that brook no objection into the helpless, upturned palm. He knows then that he is going to say it, fifteen years of unspoken truce be damned.

He's between Draco's legs when it happens, on the verge of pushing inside, and Draco must have seen it in his eyes because his own grow bright with panic and he shakes his head, quick and fierce as a shiver on the pillow.

“I love you,” Harry says, before he can talk himself out of it. That little head shake again, as though Draco cannot stand to hear it, does not believe it, or both. The coward in him makes his lips start to form the word _no,_ but he stops it.

“I do. I always have.”

The brightness slips from the corners of Draco's eyes, but his body arches up to meet Harry's. Harry's already inside him when he replies, his own voice shocked, whispering, like he's swearing and cannot believe the words that dare come from him -

“I love you.”

He curls a hand, the gentlest of fingers around Harry's neck, and pushes up hard to meet his thrusts and it feels like the boldest he has ever been in his life.

_Harry remembers the first time, the first time they'd really fucked rather than just quick angry hand jobs and frotting in cupboards – it was fourth year – maybe fifth year, it was fifth year – he remembers, how they'd laughed at rules prohibiting boy and girl proximity, mutually wondered how much after-dark dick touching was going on in the boys dorm rooms. He had cornered Draco in the corridor that afternoon, after he had strode past Harry with his cronies sneering over his shoulder._

“ _Oi!” he had shouted after him - “Malfoy!”_

_Draco had turned, muttered to the others that he would catch them up, and crossed the space between them in long, frankly angry strides, a walk that suggested anger and irritation, not the magnetic pull that dragged them closer. Mercifully the corridor had deserted itself and Harry had – he slammed him up against the wall, Draco putting up no fight because – well – he never actually did._

“ _I hate the way you walk, Malfoy -”_

_He realised as he said it that this was a, ridiculous and b, he really had managed to get annoyed at Draco's act of simply walking past him, mostly because he had found himself getting hard on the spot and frustration did a lot for anger._

“ _What? I can't walk now? Who died and made you -”_

“ _I hate the way you talk, too.”_

_Which was the last thing Harry said before he kissed him, breaking off only to inarticulately murmur -_

“ _I hate – I hate – I hate -”_

“ _Yeah you hate me so much I can feel your dick. I get it Potter -”_

“ _I really don't think you do -” not that he got it any more himself._

“ _So what are you going to do about it?”_

“ _Fuck you. Back here. Midnight.”_

_And that was how it had happened; furiously, angrily, exquisitely, with a bright sort of savagery he might have regretted if Draco had not come so hard underneath him. For his part he had never felt any pleasure as completely as that night, slamming out every frustration and thwarted feeling he had ever had into Draco's body, unable to stop growling his_ I hate you _even as he spilled inside him. They neither of them had ever said those three words as repeatedly or passionately as then and they would continue to snarl them out for the rest of the year._

This isn't fucking though, at some point into it they both find themselves having to admit it, at least in their own heads, this is the other thing, the one they're still, as adults, too young to name. This is forehead to forehead, silence except for the effort of remembering to breathe; this is the whisper and mutter of kisses and of bodies moving together. This is a cry that is almost weeping but which shudders out like bird song full of joy followed by an exhalation of breath like a candle being blown out on an altar and a shuddering like the world has moved, in which two are one and they burst for the joy of it.

There's a bed and a guttering candle flame and a moonbeam thrown hastily over two sets of legs like a blanket that will always leave something cold. There's a hand pulling a real blanket up around them and the silence of not knowing what to say that also covers not needing to say anything. There is one boy who starts to cry because his feelings are too big for his body, and the other who holds him, and in the end says -

_Marry me?_

___x___

**It.....got away from me yeah, went sentimental. Tune in next time for extreme angst! :-)**


	3. Marked

**THIS ONE IS WAY MORE POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING THAN PREVIOUS CHAPTERS PLEASE READ WARNINGS. This one be angst. Great hurt/ Much Comfort. Graphic depictions of self harm and what I would describe as borderline suicidal ideation and a smattering of PTSD. I'm not kidding about the self harm kids, I grossed myself out writing it. Also trigger warnings for blood as well as the rest of it. Combination married AU and Eighth yr at Hogwarts AU. We be flinging AUs around like confetti here. :-)**

**3\. Marked**

They never remember afterwards what the fight was about, but it doesn't stop them fighting – does it ever with anyone? It is a wonder that the fights still escalate, still descend the way they do, knowing – but both forget this at the angry times – that the cause will be lost in the morning and only the ghosts of the feelings and the way in which they made up afterwards will remain. At least half of the time – they are both able to admit this these days – they seek the argument out, just for the pleasure of _making up_ later. On the other hand, adult now or not, both of them would still more or less always say that the other one started it.

It's easy to start, and familiar, Harry only has to say _Good morning_ in a way that Draco finds offensive, or to give him a well-calculated face that is actually admiration or lust or approval, but he can make it look like disgust if that's the mood. Draco can give an airy wave of his hand that gives Harry the urge to snap his wrist, or drawl something dismissive from the couch – enough to start a fight or to have Harry push him straight down into the couch and be done with the fighting part of this game.

The first push is verbal, the other pushes back, neither able nor wanting to avoid the bait, even when there's real anger it's usually rather enjoyable; Draco once referred to it as Harry's _rather tedious mating ritual,_ Harry countering with the query as to if it was so tedious, why was he so often the one to initiate it. This time Draco starts it – he denies it later – but at the peak of it Harry gets up in his grill and he pushes him; Harry grabs his wrist, spitting out _get off me! Ugh don't touch me!_ both of them rock hard, with glittering eyes and drawn back lips and then -

Something goes wrong. Harry finds himself holding on to Draco's wrist for just a little too long, and he's not even really staring at Draco's arm but it feels to Draco like he _is_ and his cheeks burn hotly, his lip quivers and he snatches his arm away viciously, mouth twitching at the corners -

“Yeah alright, you don't have to look at it like that. I _know.”_

He tugs his sleeve down to the wrist and holds it there, spins around and marches out the room almost at a run.

_Shit,_ Harry thinks, frustrated fists clenched, punching the counter top he was backed up against, unsure whether to follow or stay and dithering in the kitchen in the late afternoon sunlight.

His mind falls back five years, the beginning of Year Eight and their final year at school, three months after the war. The summer was never going to have been long enough to heal. Hogwarts was fixed – more or less - but the _less_ was significant, corners and sections of the building still in disrepair, and then all the new ghosts, so many of whom were people they had once gone to school with. He had known from the first few days that he was not going to last the first time, let alone the whole year; he had already told Ron of his plans to quit and take up his position in the Ministry before Christmas.

“ _It was bad enough when I was the Chosen One -” he remembers telling Ron - “Now that I'm the bloody Saviour of The Wizarding World I can't move for first years looking at me like I'm some kind of bloody phoenix.”_

“ _They even do it to_ me!” _Ron had agreed - “Can you imagine? Never thought I'd hate_ that!”

_So they were going to quit together, Christmas at the very latest._

_In truth he had been surprised to see Draco back at school at all. Slytherin House was tiny that year, the whole school wary about who it let in, and as a result the small number of previous years Slytherin students who had dared come back were sharing quarters with Ravenclaw and generally shunned by everyone, derided and shamed for their part in the war, and Harry was starting to think that if he had to mutter_ \- “ _Give him a bloody break” to anyone else he was going to quit school on the spot. Draco just glared at him more angrily every time he heard himself defended, and they had gone the first three weeks without even speaking._

_Which was not to say Harry was not back to his old habit of following Draco all over the school with his eyes at the very least. Ron had actually started to notice and to ask him about it. Hermione had just looked at him with tight lips and said nothing. He knew that Draco had no friends left; he knew he was walking in terror, the events of the past year still catching up with him one by one, he knew that he was going home weekends out of fear of leaving his parents alone too long._

_He knew damn well that Draco wasn't sleeping, that he was crying himself awake at nights, hiding in bathrooms and quiet corners through the day, scared of his own shadow – he hadn't seen it but he knew – he knew that look well enough. So he watched him, worriedly, waiting for a moment to make up for his behaviour the last time he found Draco crying on his own._

_He was almost too late._

_They were at supper in the Great Hall when they overheard a Slytherin student ask -_

“ _Hey, has anyone seen Malfoy?”_

_For some reason both Ron and Hermione turned to look at Harry -_

“Has _anyone seen him today?” Hermione asked, as though Harry would know._

“ _I dunno -” he shrugged - “Why are you both looking at me?”_

“ _Well it_ is _a bit worrying, isn't it?”_

“ _What you gonna do? Go offer him a hug?” Ron frowned at her._

“ _Shut up, Ron!”_

“ _Now where's Harry going?” he had wailed as Harry threw his knife down and ran out of the Hall._

“ _Ron -” Hermione had sighed, looking at Harry go with a pinched, worried expression and a nod to herself._

“ _What? What's going on with those two?”_

“ _Ron, you're an idiot.”_

_-x-_

_He had caught up to Draco in the Girl's Bathroom. Of course it was, wasn't it, it just had to be that bloody bathroom, because history loves to repeat itself in painful slashes across the heart. It was like following a ghost, only worse because he could hear him crying; but this time he could hear him muffling a scream, as he approached cautiously he could hear the most sickening slicing sound and when he saw the ribbon of red trickling across the floor he stopped, approaching not quite so cautiously, and let himself be seen, heart leaping into his throat with fear._

_Draco had looked up from the floor, eyes huge and dazzled; animal in the headlight eyes, the collar of his shirt between his teeth as he pushed the point of the knife under his skin, pushing the blade upwards from just beneath his wrist and slashing outwards in an almost delicate motion like he was skinning a fish. His collar was soaked with his own tears and his left arm was already a wash of blood from wrist to elbow._

“ _Oh my fucking -” Harry had dropped to his knees before he could even finish cursing, wanting to curse even more – curse himself, Draco, the world, the entire bloody pattern of their lives, all the dreams he had had like this, Draco bleeding on this bathroom floor – dreams of never getting to him in time to help. Shutting up only to grab onto his arm and hold the skin together, wrestling with his other hand to get the knife from Draco's -_

“ _Give me that!”_

“ _Let go of me!”_

_Draco squirming like a mouse in the claws of a cat, trying to lash out with the knife, not caring who he hurt, Harry prising back his thumb and scooping the handle out of Draco's slippery palm, throwing it across the bathroom floor with a metallic clatter of disgust._

“ _Idiot!” he spat, holding onto both arms now, kneeling over Draco so he could not possibly wriggle away, he remembers feeling his blood seep between his own fingers, remembers how petrified he was at how much blood he was losing – “What were you trying to -” he did not bother finishing; he knew damn well what Draco was trying to do and the knowledge knit every mangled complicated feeling he had ever had into a new heartbeat, one that pounded over and over again with the realisation -_ Oh god, I love him. I love him. I love him. _His heart had been racing until it felt stuck in his throat, ready to leap out his mouth like bile and_ Oh god if I vomit up my heart on him will we finally be even? _He had to stop him bleeding –_ If he should die – If anything should happen – _he took out his wand with an awkward hand that kept hold of Draco's wrist at the same time. He remembers – and this will never ever stop hurting him – how Draco's eyes had stared at his wand with a flash of fear and he had said (remember this Harry don't ever let yourself feel better) – he had said -_

“ _Don't hurt me,” and he had replied -_

“ _I won't – I would ne-”. The back of his hand almost twitched (I Must Not Tell Lies) because what had he done last time he was here?_

“ _Stay still -”_

_He really should not have said it; Draco had just gnashed his teeth and wriggled harder, and looking at all that rage and viciousness and pain all Harry had wanted was to keep him safe -_

“ _Vulnera sanentur -” he insisted, despite all attempts to throw him off, sealing skin back where it belonged, knitting flesh around the arm, not letting it hang off in one great flapping strip - “Vulnera sanentur, vulnera sanentur -” by the time the arm was mended, the squirming had ceased, and only a relentless messy sobbing remained; he had scooped it all up in his arms, cradled it to his chest. When the storm had passed he had half carried Draco to the infirmary and he had stayed there half the night until he woke up from a hearty application of dittany and a sleeping draught for shock._

_-x-_

_When Draco finally woke up he had first whimpered and shifted softly in bed, and Harry, half asleep himself, had let go of his hand, not reckoning his chances if Draco noticed him holding it. He had blinked himself awake and then peered blearily to his left with sore eyes that saw everything rather greyly -_

“ _Ohh -” he groaned dully in a breathy sigh, - “You. Why is it -” he said slowly, just as slowly propping himself up on his elbows - “Whenever I feel worst – there you are? Or is it -” he makes an abrupt finger clicking gesture towards the water by the bed, which Harry finds he resents immensely but hands him the glass anyway - “Is it that you show up, and suddenly I'm feeling my worst?”_

“ _Glad to see you're feeling better,” Harry said, not quite smiling because of the circumstances, but nearly. He watches Draco drink, watches him lick his lips just a little bit too long. Draco hands him back the glass, frowning for a split second as though knowing there is something you are supposed to say when handed something but not sure what it is._

“ _I think the phrase you're looking for is thank you,” Harry shrugs._

“ _Fuck you.”_

“ _Close enough,” he sighs._

“ _Why are you here, Potter? Come to gloat?”_

“ _Just – just stop, okay? Look – I -” it's hard to admit it and there is so much to say, so much gap to bridge, he sort of wishes he could just skip the whole thing and kiss him - “I've been here all night, I -”_

“ _Why?”_

“ _Damn it, Malfoy! I was – worried – about – you -” it all comes out like pulling teeth. Again, even tenser than before, and so full of self loathing it hurts Harry's chest like acid in the heart -_

“ _Why?”_

“ _Did you even see what you did? You could have killed yourself!”_

“ _Oh.” Draco glared at him, eyes narrowing, voice lifeless - “Oh. no.”_

_(“Just tell him -” Harry heard Hermione's voice in his head – they had come to find him, last night, her and Ron, he had been sat here for nearly two hours by that point._

“ _Harry?” Ron's face had been a map of confusion - “What are you doing?”_

“ _I -” he had gestured helplessly and vaguely - “He was hurt. I – guess – I sort of helped?”_

“ _Hurt how?” Ron went on, Hermione's eyes had darted straight to the bandage on Draco's arm and she hadn't said anything - “Is there some kind of danger?”_

“ _No, he -”_

“ _He did it himself,” Hermione finished and Harry smiled at her weakly, gratefully._

“ _Yeah I get that, but like, why are_ you _still here Harry?”_

“ _Oh for god's sake, Ron!” Hermione snapped, turned back to Harry. “Harry, exactly how long has this been going on?”_

“ _Has – what been going on?”_

_She glared at him impatiently -_

“ _How long have you been in love with Draco?”_

“ _You're WHAT?”_

_Hermione rolled her eyes; it gave Harry time to stare down at his hands, they were still held over Draco's on the bedspread._

“ _I think since -” he really didn't want to say the first word that sprang into his head on this matter but it was true and it was there. He closed his eyes and said it._

“ _Always.”_

“ _Oh shit.” Hermione sighed heavily, sat down beside him._

“ _I don't think I can -” Ron waved his hands in front of him as though trying to erase what he was seeing, hearing, all of it - “I'm gonna be -” and he ran off._

“ _It's hard for him,” Hermione said heavily, apologetically - “You get that, right? You haven't forgotten what he used to be like? Even before the -” because she's Hermione, she very nearly says Dark Mark, but glancing back at that bandaged arm even she cannot bring herself to just now -_

“ _Even back in first year - the things he said to us – all of us -”_

“ _No Hermione, I haven't forgotten anything – I – I can't explain it but -”_

“ _I wasn't asking you to explain it Harry. I was just checking that you hadn't gone quite mad.”_

“ _Maybe,” he shrugged. “Love is stupid. Probably mad, yeah.”_

“ _I know,” she shrugged, surprising him. “So? What are you going to do about it?”_

“ _I've been trying to work that out for seven years. What_ do _I do, Hermione?”_

“ _Christ on a bike Harry, just tell him? That'd be a start.”_

“ _Just – tell – him -” he echoed quietly, though his insides were wailing and he stared at Hermione in despair._

“ _Good luck!” she patted him on the shoulder and went off after Ron.)_

“ _Look -” Harry said patiently - “I didn't rescue you from a fucking fire pit just so you could die on me, alright? I didn't save you from going to Azkaban when the Ministry tried to round you up with the others just so you could -”_

“ _Yes, I thought that was you.” Draco sounded accusing - “And here you are – saving me again. You must be so proud. Maybe you should just give up.”_

_(Just tell him, just tell him, just – yeah, great, thanks Hermione -)_

“ _Look, Draco -” Draco did not stop glaring at him, lips a hard tight line, right fist clenched, but he did blink a little at the sound of his first name. “I can't go back and pretend I took your hand when you first offered me it. I can't make it so I was your friend through school. I can't just not hate you or forgive the way you've treated my friends. I can't take back cursing you in the bathroom when I should have offered help – ever – but if I can – I want to help, because - because -”_

“ _Because you're the sodding Saviour of the Wizarding world? Becuase of your great big disgusting hero complex? Spare me. Help someone who wants it.”_

“ _Sod that, I'm not a hero – I'm not – but you're not a villain, and I – I want to help you because I -”_

“ _Oh no -” Harry could have always after pinpointed the moment he saw it dawning in Draco's eyes, the moment he saw the truth in Harry's eyes in a blinding clash of grey and green -_

“ _Don't you dare -”_

“ _Yeah – I love you. I think I always did, and I don't want to see someone I love hurt themselves.”_

“ _Why? Ignoring for a moment the fact that I'd rather die a thousand times than hear you ever say_ that _again -” Draco sneered, but it didn't reach his eyes - “Why does it matter? I wasn't trying to get rid of anything I didn't want to get rid of – you hate it -” his eyes darted to his arm. “Just as much as I do.”_

“ _You know? I don't think I do.”_

“ _Well I can't get rid of it. Can't scratch it out or cut it off, I've tried and tried, it's hideous and awful and I'm going to be defined by it forever -”_

“ _That's stupid.”_

“ _Oh, go to hell.”_

“ _No that really is stupid, Malfoy. It's just a scar – or will be again soon. It's not who you are.”_

“ _What would you know about scars?”_

_Harry shrugs, pushes his hair out of his eyes._

“ _Oh.” Draco peers at it curiously, as though seeing it for the first time. “Does it still hurt?”_

“ _No. It used to, every time He – Who -”_

“ _You can say Voldemort -” Draco's face was white but Harry could see him visibly fight through it - “It doesn't hurt”. He was lying, but it was the kind of lie Harry understood._

“ _Yeah. Used to hurt every time he was nearby -”_

“ _Mm. Same.”_

“ _Now he's gone, it doesn't – is yours the same?”_

“ _Not right now but – usually.”_

“ _Huh. There - we're no different. In fact, I'd say between us we're the perfect Dark Lord early warning system.”_

“ _Ugh. You're not funny, Potter.” But Draco's lips had twitched just a little, which was enough for that moment. When Harry put his hand back over his he did not move away. For a long moment he just looked down at their hands, not daring to look at the journey Draco's face seemed to be going through._

“ _Do you know what McGonaghall said?” he said suddenly. “ I overheard them talking just this morning – the teachers – they were talking about overhauling the entire House system – getting rid of the sorting even – she said Slytherin at least should be disbanded, that it wasn't fair to assign anyone a self fulfilling prophecy of evil – is that what I am, Potter? A self fulfilling prophecy of evil?”_

_He made it sound angry, somehow, in fact, he managed to make it sound like he blamed Harry for it if it is the case, and for the first time it occurred to Harry that he_ could – _if he had to, if it made him feel better, he could lay any blame, any hurt and rage that he had all onto him and he would take it if it made this idiot feel any better. But the answer was easy enough -_

“ _You're not evil, Draco.”_

“ _I'm not?” He sounded so like a little boy in the question that Harry just wanted to gather him up into his arms again, rock him until everything fixed itself. There were things, it occurred to him, that could maybe never be fixed, but he determined right then to make sure that Draco would not be one of them._

“ _You're not,” he said. Draco closed his eyes._

“ _Alright.” He did not sound convinced but he at least sounded like he was ready to be and it was a start._

_-x-_

All of this rushes through Harry's mind in the space of a couple of minutes and it's enough to make his mind up – so what if Draco wants to stomp off and cry on his own? He can't have everything he wants, brat that he is, and Harry's not about to let him _ever_ do that again if he can help it, he has been ever since that day in the infirmary. He can hear a muffled sob even from downstairs, and he sighs and goes up to where he knows he will find the idiot.

He's in a corner of the bathroom floor, knees pulled up to his chest, fingernails digging into his arm and just ever so slightly starting to drag, face screwed up, angry and sad. It's taken them years to bring his reactions down to anything this good, but Harry still wishes – he wishes and he wishes for a lot of things.

“Draco -” he says gently, kneeling down, prising his fingers firmly away from his arm before he can really hurt himself, such an old, familiar gesture, not his favourite in the world - “Dearest. There's no need. I wasn't even looking.”

He takes the poor injured arm in his hand and gently presses his lips to the wrist.

“You – weren't?”

“No. You know what I was looking at? What I was thinking?”

“No.” Draco's bottom lips sticks out in a pout that tells Harry he _does_ know it was nothing awful really, he can just never hear it too easily.

“I was thinking how beautiful you were. How much I wanted you. That's all Malfoy, I promise.”

Funny how all that time ago using Draco's first name had been just about the most affectionate gesture he could make, now using each other's second names is either a term of endearment or faux – angry flirting.

“Oh,” he bites his lower lip, nibbling the pout away. “It's all in my stupid head again isn't it? It wasn't real.”

“Yeah, but as a very wise man once told me -”

“Oh no -” Draco moans, but he smiles and clasps his hands around Harry's neck, letting him pick him up like a child.

“Yep -”

“Not _again -”_

“Just because it's in your head -”

“Doesn't mean it isn't real. I _know_ Potter, god. Where are you taking me?”

“Bed.” Harry nods firmly - “If you want. Wanting you doesn't go away that fast, you know. _Do_ you want?”

“Always.”

“Also I've decided – the bathroom is now off limits for angst, crying or otherwise brooding. New house rule. Okay?”

“Okay.”

__x__

**I fight real hard with myself not to have anyone say "Always" ever but I loses the fight :-( :-P**

**In other news idk if anyone noticed but yes I have given Harry/ Draco a little cottage together in the South Downs as a nod to my other current OTP. They all deserve it. :-)**


	4. Conversations You'd Rather Not Have

**Small ridiculously silly crack fic in which Ron and Harry discuss masturbation - much to Harry's despair.**

**4.**

“Harry -”

Oh God. Something in Ron's voice tells him he already doesn't want to hear this question, let alone answer it.

“Yeah -”

“You know when you're -”

“What?”

“Y'know -”

“Ron, I think we established by _what_ that I _don't_ know.”

“When you're -”

“Oh my god, when I'm what?”

“You _know -”_ Ron makes a fisted gesture that makes Harry wish with all his heart he had just said _wanking_ out loud.

“Ron, is this about wanking?”

“What? Oh, um, yeah! When you do that -”

“You're assuming I _do_ do that -”

“Well – doesn't everyone?”

“I dunno Ron, I haven't exactly been around all my friends and asked.”

“So – but you _do_ do that sometimes, right?”

“Look, I'll be more quiet about it in the future if that's what you're getting at – or I'll, I dunno, go to the nearest bathroom cubicle or something, okay?”

He's been thinking about this for a little while anyway, terribly afraid that a certain name could spill out of him at the same time as everything else.

“Nah, it's not that – I've never heard you – awww man, you do it in the _dorm room?”_

“I mean – sometimes – don't you?”

  
  


“Alright, yeah, shut up.”

  
  


“Look Ron, what exactly are you trying to ask me?”

  
  


“Do you ever – I mean is it normal to – say, think about a certain person?”

  
  


“Person – yes – yeah I um, I think so, why?”

  
  


_Please don't let me ever have said his name out loud in Ron's hearing, please please please._

  
  


“Like a um – a girl -”

  
  


Harry cannot quite control his nervous laugh -

  
  


“Girl – haha – yeah, exactly.”

  
  


“Like – you might be thinking they have really nice skin or something and this is – like connected to – um – what you're doing -”

  
  


“Really.....nice....skin....” Harry's not sure whether he is more horrified at where this conversation is going or where his stupid mind is going ( _Draco's got really nice skin, I wonder what it would feel like, soft as moonbeams, smooth as starlight, he's like milk and snow and all things perfect, probably stain him with my stupid hands oh god, I wanna touch him – just wanna punch his whole stupid face – with my face – on the mouth -_ o _h fuck – I want -)_

“Harry, are you listening to me?”

  
  


“Listening – yup, yes I am, here I am, listening to you, Ron -”

  
  


“So that's normal then?” Ron sounds relieved - “Thinking about a person, like bits of a person when you're – y'know – having one off the wrist -”

  
  


“Oh god Ron, it's not that I don't wanna think about you wanking mate, it's just that I really don't wanna think about you wanking.”

  
  


(- _bits of a person yeah – like his eyes are like little chips of starlight and how I could cut myself on his jawline, how I want to cut myself on his jawline and that neck, I can't stop looking at his stupid neck like I don't know if I want to kiss it or throttle him and – both, can I do both? And he wears those trousers way too tight these days oh god -)_

  
  


“That's harsh.”

  
  


“Seriously? Do you wanna think about _me_ wanking?”

  
  


“Yeah alright, that's fair.”

  
  


“Also – with the – skin thing – and now I'm wondering if you're talking about Hermione and I can't think about Hermione like that Ron, it's just not -”

  
  


“Yeah, but I mean _you_ said Ginny had nice skin -” Ron's brain catches up to his mouth which promptly falls open in horror - “Oh seven shades of no, Harry do you think about Ginny when you're -”

  
  


Ron looks ready to vomit or murder him or both.

  
  


“Ron – Ron, it's cool. I do _not_ think about Ginny when I'm wanking.” This at least is true.

  
  


“Oh. Oh good. S'alright then.”

  
  


Ron breathes a huge sigh of relief and then looks at Harry with sudden suspicion -

  
  


“So who _do_ you think about?”

  
  


“I'm not – I mean – nobody. Shut up.”

  
  


“Well it's clearly somebody mate, you've gone red as a ruby – c'mon, you can tell me -”

  
  


“Nope.”

  
  


“Aww, is it Cho?”

  
  


“Quite officially not.”

  
  


After half a day of Ron throwing names at him -

  
  


“Ron, you're not gonna guess. And there isn't anyone, and even if there was, he wouldn't -”

  
  


“ _He_ wouldn't?” Ron does a victory lap of the Gryffindor common room, whooping with glee -

  
  


“Knew it! I bloody knew it!”

  
  


“Yeah, shut up Ron.”

  
  


Another half a day and the name of just about every boy in Gryffindor, until not only Harry but most of the form are shouting _Give it up Ron!_ and Harry in despair, mutters in defeat -

  
  


“Yeah, it's Draco Malfoy,” and waits for the shock to fall on him. Instead Ron just laughs -

  
  


“Very funny mate,” and carries on guessing. Harry's head drops back into his hands in despair, or possibly relief.

  
  


__x__


	5. Requirement

**This one is E rated for graphic porns, set very shortly after the events of Chapter 3, in the same timeline/ AU**  
  


**5.**

  
  


“Just tell him, you said!” Harry half explodes, wishing he could really explode, wishing he could let go of all the baggage he seems to have already accumulated this term, not to mention over the last eight years, or his whole life. He finds himself wishing even for those angry second-through-fifth year kisses and more – just never enough more – in broom closets; it would be something, some way of letting it out. All those years of thinking about Draco, hating Draco, wanting Draco, obsessing over bloody bastard Draco; he feels like the whole of him has clenched up into a fist of frustration. Because he _did_ tell him, didn't he? All of that emotional outpouring, all those confessions made, the start he felt they had begun towards something beautiful, and now Draco won't make eye contact, won't speak to him, has in fact gone back to a positively second year level of sneering at him behind his back as well as visibly and here he is again, getting wound up back as though six years of growing up has done nothing.

  
  


“Well you _did,_ didn't you?” Hermione's level of reasonable just kind of makes it worse; she follows him out of the Hall, once again leaving Ron alone with his dessert and struggling to get his head around the entire Harry/ Draco mess.

  
  


“Yeah.” Harry stops in the corridor, students all around them - “I did. It's just – ah, I dunno Hermione - he didn't say it back, did he? For all I know, he hates me – more than ever after – after -” he makes a helpless flap of the hand and starts walking away down the corridor, Hermione trotting after him, sick of this.

  
  


“Well isn't it obvious?” she sighs.

  
  


“Isn't what obvious?”

  
  


“Harry, he loves you, that doesn't mean it's actually easy to say it.”

  
  


“You think I don't know that?”

  
  


“So what's the rest of the problem?”

  
  


“I still hate him too,” Harry sighs with painful honesty; if it's only half honesty, it's true enough to bother him. He sees Hermione close her eyes in pain -

  
  


“What?” he asks, because he does not see Draco until after she does, staring at him with a positively murderous glare from only a few metres away, nostrils flaring, lips twisting, eyes silver bright before he squeezes them tight shut for a second and half strides, half runs away down the corridor, fists as clenched as Harry's. Heard that. Of course he heard that.

  
  


“Uhhrrrr -” Harry's moans, head dropping forward towards solace on Hermione's shoulder, except she steps back sharply.

  
  


“Go!” she orders - “After him!”

  
  


He runs. Hermione watches him, shaking her head in despair.

  
  


“Oi!” Harry yells, skidding round a corner and seeing Draco head up a staircase - “Malfoy!”

  
  


Draco pretends not to hear him and continues up. Harry leaps onto the stairway just as it starts to move, taking the stairs at a run and grabbing Draco's shoulder as he reaches the top -

  
  


“Ugh! Get _off_ me, Potter!” Draco rolls his shoulder savagely out from under Harry's hand, frowning as though the grab hurt – and _oh shit,_ Harry thinks, it probably did, the whole arm probably still hurts. Draco holds his left arm in his right hand, almost protectively across his chest.

  
  


“What do you _want?”_ He's still sort of walking, sort of backing away from Harry down the corridor, unsure if he wants to be making eye contact or not.

  
  


“I have to talk to you.”

  
  


“Why? So you can tell me you hate me personally, rather than just telling your little friends? Spare me -”

  
  


“No, I just wanted to -”

  
  


“Don't bother.”

  
  


“Draco -”

  
  


Harry plants himself squarely in front of him to stop him trying to walk off. Draco's nostrils flare, his lips curl -

  
  


“Get out of my face and out of my way, Potter.”

  
  


“Or what? You'll carry on avoiding me?”

  
  


“That's the plan.”

  
  


“I said I had to talk to you -”

  
  


“So _talk -”_

  
  


Harry falls apart on the inside, chickening out for the millionth time; mouth, throat, chest all the way down through him he fails to let out a word or a feeling, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, trying to read Draco's eyes and unsure if what he sees is plain hate, a flicker of hope or just exhaustion. He's tired, so is Harry, he should never have tried to come back this year and yet, he clears his throat -

  
  


“Yeah thought not.” Draco sighs, eyes dropping, a barely audible sigh - “Get out of my way.”

  
  


“No, I -”

  
  


“You know I've never actually punched you before? It's starting to look like a great time to break a record -”

  
  


“Bring it, Malfoy don't forget to use your right arm, left one's not looking so good -”

  
  


“You low down, cowardly son of a -”

  
  


For a minute he thinks Draco actually _will_ punch him, but as soon as he starts forward it galvanises him into action and his hands are balled in Draco's shirt, shoving him back hard into the wall and he's reeling, feeling the beat of his heart pushed up against his chest, the crisp stiff fabric in his hands. He can smell the cool night-air and curiously honey smell of him, and his hands are static with the closeness of _them_ , his head a mess that can only yell y _ou- you – you_ over and over, heart and chest and senses balling into a tight fist inside him and coiling up too low down for comfort. He registers surprise in Draco's eyes, shock, a sneer, apprehension, breathlessness. He registers his breathing grow heavy and his eyes darken and drop to Harry's lips at the same fraught moment as Harry's eyes drop to his lips in time to see him moisten them with the tip of a perfect tongue and he's on those lips in a flash, kissing Draco, claiming Draco, body surging forward, pushing him fast between him and the wall, clutching and reaching for him, trying to get skin, trying to touch everything he can, starved for this, desperate, kissing like kisses will save him, feverish and urgent, and one cool soft hand grips the back of his neck like a claw, all nails, and the other one pushes at his shoulder like it's fighting with itself as to pushing him off or pulling him closer but either way Draco whimpers and kisses him back, and the whimper undoes Harry completely. It's been a thousand years and he's not in fifth year any more, he wants more, so much than ever before. He's so hard already and he can feel Draco's cock against him too and when he touches the edge of his face he has to take a step back or come already for the soft perfection of that skin.

  
  


“Fuck -” he hisses - “Want you – I need -”

  
  


Draco just nods and makes a high, short, stifled noise. Harry grips his hand tightly and looks around them, positively frenzied. Room of Requirement, just down the hall; it's almost ridiculous, he thinks, when he's never even required anything quite this much, but that last turn of the staircase led them here, of course it did - like the school itself wants them to work it out. He practically drags Draco into the room, which seems to have decided on minimum requirements only today; there's not even a bed just a decent sized mattress and sheet in the corner, blankets, a night light.

  
  


“Well _I_ require a bed,” Draco sniffs. “This room couldn't even hear me think?”

  
  


“I was just thinking about you -” Harry shakes his head, actually smiling.

  
  


“Ahhh -” Draco raises an acerbic eyebrow accusingly at the mattress - “What a truly marvellous compromise”.

  
  


“Shut up, Malfoy.”

  
  


“Make me,” Draco grins, he actually _grins,_ like Harry has not seen in years and his heart does fireworks as he pulls him close again with a savage tug. He kisses him fiercely, furiously, hating that he does this, that this isn't the first time and won't be the last, hating that his heart, his body always drag him back here on an assumption of hate that would be so much easier if it were true. It's always been a battle when they kiss and it's always been the only fight he has ever enjoyed. He needs this like breathing, needs _Draco_ like breathing, he's ready to explode from how much and how intensely he wants. His fingers tremble at the buttons of Draco's shirt.

  
  


“So – what?” Draco half sneers, but his eyes are blown too black for the full Malfoy sarcasm - “You thought you'd just _have_ me? On the floor if need be?”

  
  


“Yes – ” _fuck_ he's so beautiful, so pale, skin so soft hiding all those sharp angles, and sharp angles hiding a softness in his stance, an acquiesance, even enthusiasm, no amount of posturing can hide.

  
  


“Ugh.” He feigns disgust; it's always been a special talent - “like an animal? You're disgusting.”

  
  


“You _are_ an animal – what did you want – satin sheets and tenderness?”

  
  


Draco's lip curls; whether he means the disgust or not, it's a gesture well practised enough to come naturally and his eyes flash for a second with something that makes Harry think _Oh -_

  
  


“Don't want _tenderness -”_ he sneers like it's a dirty word, but he also says it in the same voice in which he once told Harry he wasn't scared. “Certainly not from _you -”_

  
  


“That's good, 'cause you're not gonna get it. Fuck, Malfoy - I'm hard as rock and I hate you, what do you think's going to happen?” He pushes him in the chest - his hands want to linger on his skin, but he wants him pushed back against the mattress. Draco shoves back but it's ineffectual.

  
  


“Good, I hate you too and we're not little kids any more rubbing off in closets. Slam it into me, Potter, fuck me hard with all that hate, make it hurt -” he looks shocked for a moment as though all of this was absolutely not what he meant to say and just spilled raw from a pit of him that has wanted to say it for far too long. Harry gets it, he really does -

  
  


“God yes, I do I want to hurt you - fuck, get down, I'm gonna fuck you -”

  
  


This is the worst thing in many ways; the part of him that really _does_ want to hurt Draco, that has pictured the bruises he could leave on that perfect skin so many times, he has torn rents in him with his fingernails repeatedly in his mind, but he won't, not now, not much. They're both only half dressed when Draco drops down onto the mattress he previously derided and it's him who pulls Harry down on to him, insistent hands and angry lips that want to bruise themselves against him, and that's fine, he thinks, when Draco's kisses hurt with teeth against his throat; we were always meant to tear each other to pieces, break on the shores of each other, it's right, it's good – he kisses back almost as hard. Then the little bastard touches his cock through his pants, and he almost screams. He touches right back and for a moment they stare at each other in a frightened, quiet lust-drenched stillness, terrified of how urgently, how violently they want this and terrified of so much more, that thing Harry named once and certainly isn't going to name again just this minute. Thank God there's a spell to take clothes off; both of them mutter it now almost as one mind.

  
  


He's panting, even though it wasn't effort, just because there's nothing between them now and Draco is staring at him with wide eyes that beg him to call every single shot – and he's not sure he could help himself there even without that permission – and he's _so_ beautiful, so pale and almost shining; he wants to touch everwhere, kiss every inch of skin, but he can't, not now - he needs to be inside him far far too badly. He casts his eyes wildly around the room, not really wanting to tear them away for a second, panicking when he doesn't instantly find what he wants -

  
  


“Oh tell me this room knows lube is a requirement -”

  
  


Draco rolls his eyes; he's already holding a little green glass bottle out between his fingers, and for a brief flash of a moment Harry thinks of snakes and gardens and apples. He takes the bottle, frowns at it -

  
  


“This is out of _your_ head, obviously.”

  
  


“I'm clever. I think of things.”

  
  


“Shut up and turn over.”

  
  


Those eyes look silver when they narrow, and Draco's head darts forward like a serpent striking to catch Harry's mouth in a kiss; it's a mean kiss, an angry one, and so it is returned but Draco makes a little breathy sigh at the end that makes Harry's heart do something painful. _Falling in love_ something whispers inside him, that's what it is, _of course it's painful._ He tells it to shut up, tells it he's long since fallen, that they've been hurting themselevs on this for years, doesn't matter, he's falling all over again and he can tell from every breath, every hitch of the chest that Draco is falling too, both of them hand in hand down the rabbit hole.

  
  


“Turn over -” he repeats, breaking off. “I don't want to look at you -”

  
  


The back of his hand stings him because it's the biggest lie he could tell right now, but if he _does_ look – if they make eye contact for too long - he's going to fall so far he gets crushed by it. He'll never even reach for the surface again, he's drowning in Draco, he's been drowning for so long, reaching for him as he turns is like reaching for air. Touching him is like being set on fire with a flame that tingles every pore of him, reaching under his skin, dragging lust out from between his ribs in streams. He pulls the stopper out the bottle with his teeth so he does not have to let go of Draco's hips, pushing his cock up against him, barely able to slip a finger in first, though he does, then another and Draco whines - _fucking whines -_ and the sound makes Harry's head spin and he's beyond thinking, has to claim the body that arches beneath him, pushing back, offering himself up without being able to help it; he pushes in and it is so much more than just pleasure, though it's possible nothing has ever ever felt this good. He has to pause for a moment, buried deep inside, gritting his teeth to keep from coming in the instant. Bastard would never let him live it down if he did. He digs his fingers in at the juncture of hip and thigh, getting a spot which he remembers makes Draco scream – he tries not to, but it seeps from his anyway, a long stuttering cry – and he rocks gently into him at first, trying to get used to bliss, his breathing feeling _right_ for the perhaps the first time in his life, the relief of it feels so complete.

  
  


Gentle does not last too long; he's too hungry, too desperate, he has to lean in, cover Draco's back with his body so as to stop himself scoring red finger trails through the skin, turning his head with his fingers round Draco's neck, feeling the life in his throat and kissing him hard for a minute, both of them swallowing the moans that drop from the other's lips. He might die if looks in those eyes again, trails kisses down the jawline, obsessed with the nape of Draco's neck, whispering in his ear as he thrusts into him -

  
  


“You like that, Malfoy? That feel good?”

  
  


“Fuck you -” Draco whispers, almost crying because it does, self preservation scattered to the winds - “ - yes, yes it's good, you bastard – please -”

  
  


He can hear the relief, the abandonment of the way he says _please,_ he knows what it means, he leans back and slams into him savagely. This time he does run nails down his back, making marks that leap out in instant red; he's so soft, Harry hears himself hiss between his teeth – he could hurt him so easily. This is why he kept away, why he hated him, why Draco always got him _so_ wound up even when his insults were subpar – because the urge to hurt him like this has frightened him. It did not occur to him that Draco could _want_ this, that he was crying out for it with every barbed jibe. His cock is rock hard when Harry wraps his hand around it, leaking desperately onto the mattress, pushing into the hand that squeezes only enough to torment him. He can feel Draco coming undone beneath him and it's good, it's the best thing he's ever felt. He does not know how he can ever have kept away, how he could have lied to himself so hard about wanting this when he's never wanted anything more. But he does not wonder much – he can hardly think for ecstasy, aware of very little except the sensation and pleasure, ramming in roughly, turned positively vicious with lust.

  
  


“Hate you -” he mutters as he fucks him, because there is so much love in him right now he has to say it somehow - “Hate you I hate you, you disgust me -” _oh god I love you, I do, you're so beautiful, so perfect –_ he feels like exploding any moment.

  
  


“Fuck off -” Draco hisses between clenched teeth, his body singing out the opposite of his words just like Harry's - “Fuck off – and die, Potter.”

  
  


“You first -” Harry hisses, dropping his head again to whisper devastatingly against Draco's neck, squeezing his cock at the same time - “Come for me, Malfoy.”

  
  


Not long afterwards Draco finds himself deeply ashamed of how quickly he did so, crying out, screaming uncontrollably as though being told what to do was what he had been waiting for all along. His unravelling is the final straw for Harry and he's gone, emptying his heart and hate and balls into Draco, pushing his face down by the back of the neck as he does, jerking out every last drop of desire with frantically stuttering hips.

  
  


He does not stay comfortably collapsed for long, Draco wriggling and fighting, muttering and elbowing -

  
  


“Get off me, you great hefty -”

  
  


Harry chuckles and rolls away, wondering if Draco will just grab his clothes and run like he used to when they were fifth years. But it's different now, and they know it and he doesn't, just lies very still for a long time, eventually rolling over and blinking, and they're lying on their backs side by side and when Draco's hand finds his he does not pull away. At this rate, he thinks he might one day be able to dream of actually snuggling. He at least dares to look sideways, and Draco's looking back with a a faintly challenging eyebrow raise. There's a butterfly flapping wildly in Harry's chest that he might actually be ready to let out -

  
  


“Draco -” he says softly - “I -”

  
  


“ _Don't -”_ Draco hisses, lip twitching, but he's scared, for all the spite he manages to force into the word - “Don't ruin it, Potter.” He waits until Harry inclines his head ever so slightly in an agreement they both read as _not now then_ before he adds - “That _would_ be something you'd do.” They lie for a long time hand in hand, both afraid the other will hear his heart beating out of control. Eventually Draco turns over, reaches half heartedly for his clothes -

  
  


“Well if you're quite done, then -”

  
  


“No -” Harry grabs hold of Draco's hip before he can get away, and Draco sighs in what sounds suspiciously like relief, sinking back just a little, as Harry rolls over to press himself against him, cock already hardening and starting to rut against him - “I'm not _done,_ Malfoy, I'm never done -” he finds himself no longer surprised by how well his face buries into the crook of that distracting neck, pressing kisses into the collarbones as if to smooth out every sharp angle - “Not with _you._ ” He makes _you_ sound like an insult.

  
  


“You're -” he pauses because there is so much he could say that would all be true _beautiful, gorgeous, perfect, my love, my everything, my enemy, my heart, an idiot -_ “Mine,” he finishes, swearing silently to make it true.

  
  


__x__

  
  


**I may continue this further in later chapters, haven't decided yet :-P**


	6. Stargazing

  
**Happily married stargazing fluff! No badness here :-)**

**6.**

  
  


There's the gleam of first dew on the ground glittering down below them as they fly, and there's starlight all around and above, and so far away and close at hand, the starlight brighter just now for the bright gleam of the ground – Heaven and Earth waving at each other in flashes of silver and crystal.

  
  


The stars seem close enough to touch tonight; the air so clear and the scent of dew so sharp and sweet on the air - _well after all,_ Harry thinks, _I should be used to the closeness of starlight by now, didn't I marry my way into a whole family of constellations?_

  
  


By rights they should not be flying out here, in a place where muggles might see. But it's early July and the air is heady with the warm smell of cornfields, there's magic in the air, and they are both rule breakers at heart, really. More to the point, it's not like he can ever really deny this idiot anything. He can see him shining up ahead, hair bright, face wicked and alive in the moonlight, teeth white when he turns his head to grin because -

  
  


Because he's gotten ahead! Damn it! Harry kicks his broomstick as though it has been a truculent horse, even though he has been the one getting distracted, and he races forward to catch up. They can never not be at least a little bit competitive, even now, even in fun, always especially when flying.

  
  


“Thought you'd given up!” Draco grins as he comes level, eyes glittering, face exquisitely flushed.

  
  


“You wish!” and Harry laughs, because of the night, because of their banter, because of the hour that is so early it's really more like late, because of the stars and the air and this boy that he loves dazzling in the moonlight, because, above all, because of the light and life and laughter in Draco's eyes. There was a time he thought he might never see that again and he will spend another lifetime making sure it never goes out.

  
  


“Here!” Draco shouts and points, and they swoop down into a small stone circle in a field that could be any Wiltshire field in the middle of other fields in the dew and moonlight of four in the morning, late July.

  
  


He had been _asleep._ Sound asleep since round about midnight, the strange light waking him, a semi – softly whispered “Lumos!” in the dark beyond the bedposts, Draco dressing by the window, not even trying to be quiet about it.

  
  


“Whaa?” He had half sat up groggily, blinking and squinting . He had never been the worst at waking up quickly – all those years of Dudley jumping up and down on the stairs, not to mention all the years afraid of imminent attack, or at the very least nightmares, never having quite left him even so many years later.

  
  


“What are you doing? What time is it?”

  
  


“Observant as ever, Potter? I'm getting dressed. The putting on of clothes should be a dead giveaway.”

  
  


“What? Shut up, its like four in the morning, come back to bed!”

  
  


“No! Hell no! Get up! Look!” Draco throws the massive brocade curtains open dramatically. He does everything dramatically, though the curtains are so heavy there's really very little option. This is the room he used to have as a child, he told Harry, the first time he finally persuaded him to come and stay.

  
  


“Cosy,” Harry had commented, raising an eyebrow.

  
  


“Taking the piss, Potter? Like you'd know, what did you have – a broom cupboard?”

  
  


“No really, it's – cheery, honest, everything a child could ask for, and yeah, shut up - close enough.”

  
  


“I mean _obviously_ we've re-decorated since then.”

  
  


Although, as it turns out, the double four poster with the heavy green and gold drapes and the matching floor-length curtains were _not_ a part of the re-decoration. If it had been anyone other than Draco, there would have been no way Harry could imagine anyone being a child in this room, which came with its own personal bathroom and and en-suite living room area, everything huge and opulent, stiff and rather formal. Cupboard under the stairs or not, he still found himself struck by a curious surge of sympathy, one he knew better than to express at that time, though he has tentatively broached it since.

  
  


Now he blinks out at the night beyond the balcony doors, the stars visible even from their bed. Draco's eyes are glitterign like some of the star dust has found it's way into the room and settled on him -

  
  


“The sky's awake, so I'm awake!” he beams. Harry shakes his head with a sigh. That's it, he knew he should never have let him watch _Frozen._ As it is, he cried quite alarmingly during _Let It Go._

  
  


“Come on, get up! It's a perfect night for flying.”

  
  


“Flying? Ung. Sleeping more like.” He starts to pull the covers up over his head but finds them whisked away by a quicker and more awake hand.

  
  


“Ah! Cold! Why do you hate me?”

  
  


Draco snorts -

  
  


“Do you want the short list or the long one, because darling I've got them itemised all the way back to first year. Come _on!_ I want to show you something.”

  
  


So here they are, having flown off the balcony out of the manor and into the night. The air up here is like water in the face on a summer's day, cool but not too cool, and the summer has been a warm one so it's quite delicious, exhilarating and embracing him as he flies, and Harry finds himself awake and alert surprisingly quickly, racing Draco over the fields and forests that surround the ancestral pile and by the time they swoop down onto the damp grass amongst the standing stones he is ready to shout with joy from the rush of it.

  
  


“So what's the plan?” he says instead, propping his broom against a stone - “Why are we here?”

  
  


“Star gazing!”

  
  


“Star gazing?”

  
  


“Yep. Ancient family tradition.”

  
  


“Really?”

  
  


“Did I fucking stutter? Yes, really. It's not all blood sacrifice and worshipping Dark Lords, you know. What did you think I did when I was little?”

  
  


“Infant sacrifice?”

  
  


“Hilarious. Shut up Potter.” But he smiles benignly and lets it slide - “My mother first brought me here when I was five, as soon as I could fly on my own; she said the constellations were as good as a family tree; she said – don't laugh – that the stars were there so that we could never feel lonely.”

  
  


“Did it work?” Harry bites his lip, the question a tender one, already guessing the answer.

  
  


“Not – really. Not always. No.” Draco prods at the ground with his foot a little accusingly, hiding the look in his eyes by glancing downwards. Harry goes to him, arms around his shoulders from behind.

  
  


“Show me?” he smiles gently.

  
  


“You first – go on – what do you know already?”

  
  


“You're just trying to show me up and outdo me.”

  
  


“Well?” Draco shrugs - “Why break the habit of a life time?”

  
  


“Well – that one -” he points with a straight arm and can feel Draco's eyes following his finger. With his spare hand he idly strokes the ever arrogant tilt of that chin; almost like tickling a cat, he can practically feel the purr in Draco's throat - “That's the saucepan thing -”

  
  


“Ursa major.”

  
  


“And that one – know it all – is my favourite -”

  
  


“You have a favourite?” Draco almost sounds impressed, which means he actually is at least a little impressed but rarely likes to show it.

  
  


“Sirius.”

  
  


“Typical.”

  
  


“Hey, don't -”

  
  


“I meant being the briggest, brightest, most obvious and obnoxious, Chosen One, not disrespect to seond cousin Sirius.”

  
  


“Huh. I forget you were related.”

  
  


“Well -” Draco shrugs - “Sort of. The rest of the family disowned him before I was born, so -” he shrugs again - “They used to do that a lot. Honestly sometimes I'm surprised I'm still in favour. Still; alright, the dog star – heh – must have been some pre-cog abilities my ancestors never knew they had. _Anyway –_ since you started in on the family now, there -” he points to a twist of stars, not the biggest or brightest in the sky but Harry feels with a pleasant shiver for a moment that they shine brighter for a moment, pulsing out a special gleam just for him. “That's Draco – the dragon constellation -”

  
  


“ _Oh now_ I get it – you brought me out here to talk about _you.”_

  
  


“And isn't it just your favourite subject? Listen and learn Potter – this was my father's favourite, probably because of the dragon part. I used to look up at it at night from my balcony and wonder if I deserved the honour of being named for those stars. I won't tell you the conclusion I came to. Anyway. Do you know what a binary star is?”

  
  


“Two stars?”

  
  


“Kind of. It's two stars that are so close they look like one star, from a distance you might think you're seeing one star, but really it's two, always together, fixed in each other's orbit. Draco – _my_ constellation – is full of them.”

  
  


“What are you getting at?” He has an idea, he's just curious if Draco will actually say it.

  
  


“Well, all those stars up there – they're dead, aren't they? And supposedly we're all made out of dead stars or something. I always thought, maybe you and I -”

  
  


He stops. Harry can feel his cheek, flushing warm even in the breeze. He kisses it.

  
  


“I know what you thought.”

  
  


“Well don't get used to it. Malfoys don't get sentimental.”

  
  


“Do you know? I don't think that's entirely true. But I would be honoured – to be half of your star.”

  
  


“Didn't say you were,” but he says it so softly it is a weak, token protest at best. Harry folds him just a little closer in his arms.

  
  


“Alright, Malfoy.”

  
  


“Shut up, Potter.”

  
  


For as long as they can both hold the moment, they stand there on the grass in the early morning dew, getting wet trouser legs, staring up at the stars and trying not to love so hard the feeling becomes audible, though it's there in each heart beat, on each breath that clouds the summer night air. There is only one way, Harry thinks, that they can ever have got to this point, and that is by magic. He wonders if that's why they still have to insult each other about fifty times a day – to remind themselves that this is real. But then insults have been the language of their love long before either of them knew what they were doing.

  
  


Finally Draco turns, kisses him on the cheek and tugs his scarf scornfully -

  
  


“When are you going to stop wearing that stupid scarf anyway? We've been out of school four years.”

  
  


“Oh, 'cause you don't have yours hanging up in a wardrobe. I'll stop wearing it when it stops annoying you.”

  
  


“You'll never stop annoying me.”

  
  


“And that's a promise.”

  
  


__x__

**There maaay be an E-rated second part to this, idk yet, it's in my head but locked up at present :-)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Harry's first visit to Malfoy Manor after marrying Draco. Not porny, a little angsty, little flirty, little fluffy, also I would die for Narcissa Malfoy that is all. :-)**   
  


**7.**

  
  


Roughly a year after the wedding, they find themselves in a carriage pulled by thestrals, gliding with eerie smoothness through a series of increasingly narrower country lanes. These are the lanes hidden in between the hedgerows, the byways of the countryside that even walkers do not see, and a cloaking spell masks the carriage from any passers by or from the cars on the main road cutting through the fields beyond the window. Their muted grind could belong to a different reality and sometimes Harry still has trouble reconciling the two worlds that feel like they should exist in different places, not alongside each other. He can hardly stop fidgeting, like the clueless kid he once was, on his way to Hogwarts for the first time, hands restless in his lap. He glances to Draco, looking for any reassuring signs of restlessness or nerves that might make him feel better about his own but there's nothing. Draco's hands are still in his lap, his face a careful blank.

  
  


Draco knows Harry's watching him without having to shift his eyes even slightly to the left. He knows he's wondering what he's thinking, how he's feeling, if he is as nervous as he is about this visit, but he is determined to give nothing away. A part of him hates how good he has managed to get at hiding his expression but another part of him is grateful for it. He used to be terrible at it, his face like glass reflecting every hurt, every irritation and injury; and then the Death Eaters had moved into his house over that terrible summer of '97 and he had had to change all of that fast. He had had to learn quickly and completely not to show his fear, not to show nerves or confusion or a face that might be interpreted as questioning or doubting of Voldemort and his Death Eaters in any way. It was _so_ hard, he had thought every day that something or other might get him killed. Above all, his mother had repeated, insistence hiding her own terror – he couldn't cry, he could never cry; when they gave him the Dark Mark he had to grit his teeth and heart, and numb his brain and pretend it didn't hurt, that he wanted this, that he was _honoured_ by it. When they killed his erstwhile Muggle Studies teacher in front of him he could not scream or cry even when he watched the snake slide in, horror after horror parading itself in front of his eyes and no release for any real feeling. He had scraped through by the skin of his teeth and would never be able to let his face be the open book it was before then, or let tears come as easily as they once had. He looks out the window at the familiar countryside, feeling too many things to really hold all at once and cannot look at Harry or take in any of _his_ apprehension too or he might drop them all like poorly juggled items through the air.

  
  


Home. It's not that he hasn't seen it since those bad years. But it's been a year now since the wedding and he has not seen it at all since then. Being busy, sorting out the new house, learning to be happy again. It's all taken work and the truth is -

  
  


The real truth is he _is_ nervous. Partly of all the memories Malfoy Manor contains, but mostly because he knows Harry isn't keen to reawaken those few that _he_ has of the place either. He never thought his father would accept the two of them at all, and relations have always been tenuous at best and God knows he can understand Harry not having any fond memory of the place. Yes, alright, fine then, he's afraid this visit will upset him and he doesn't want that, though chances of admitting this are practically non – existent. He'll dare his own pain, but he's uncomfortable with daring Harry's. Ugh. When did he get like this?

  
  


He waves the thought away and watches the landscape unfurl like a spell. He remembers it all so clearly, all the times they have come up this way in this coach – they only get it out for formal events, though at Malfoy Manor every week brings some sort of formal event. He wishes they had not been pressed into using it this time, there are such quicker ways to travel. This is the spot where the motorway dips out of sight below the horizon, here the field that always gets corn circles in late July, the tree that got split by lightning in the storm of '83; he was too young to remember it but the descriptions from his mother always filled him with bright sparking glee. One more long twist of the road to the left and the Manor itself will appear across the fields. His stomach ties in knots, nostalgia battling apprehension with no clear victor.

  
  


“Just over the next rise,” he finds himself murmuring out loud. It is the first thing either of them have said in quite a long time and Harry looks at him directly for the first time in a while, Draco looking back and raising a caustic eyebrow to mask any nervous anxiety -

  
  


“Just in case you were going to start whining _are we there yet,”_ he shrugs.

  
  


“Well, I was thinking about it”. Harry widens his eyes as he looks back at Draco – it's a gentle expression, the eyebrow raise, but Draco has come to realise that it means the exact same thing. All of a sudden they're holding hands tightly across the carriage seat. They hold hands a lot these days; Harry thinks he might still be making up for the one time he did not take that hand when it was offered to him, and Draco hopes the same thing.

  
  


“There it is.”

  
  


The way Draco says it, Harry almost expects a burst of sunlight to come out of the clouds just in time to cast a golden glow across the house and surrounding parks as they approach the driveway. It doesn't, of course, not over this house.

  
  


“Is it – always this cloudy here? You know -” Harry grins, intentionally obnoxiously. “For the aesthetic.”

  
  


“We do _get_ sunshine Potter, pathetic fallacy isn't a thing, you know.”

  
  


“You're a pathetic fallacy.”

  
  


“Nice, scarhead, that doesn't even make sense.”

  
  


“Scarhead.” Harry rolls his eyes - “Still your weakest, you know.”

  
  


The carriage stops so that Draco can whisper a password into the gate, which swings open like great bat wings to admit them. The driveway is huge, between the box hedges, gloomy and dark and the house looms up beyond it like a monster.

  
  


“Welcoming” Harry deadpans - “Subtle, you know, really. Very understated.”

  
  


“Fuck's sake, do shut up, Potter.”

  
  


“Oh I'm just getting started. Really. I'm still trying to imagine anyone growing up here, it looks like a place to eat children, not raise them.”

  
  


“Well at least I _was_ raised, not dragged.”

  
  


“Didn't you ever get lost? How many rooms are there?”

  
  


“I don't know. I never counted, my wing had five.”

  
  


“Your _wing?”_

  
  


“My quarters then, maybe half the west wing.”

  
  


“Dear lord. I don't know how you coped. How could you stand such deprivation?”

  
  


Harry bites his tongue between his teeth to keep from sticking it out.

  
  


“If you don't start to behave in the next two minutes I _will_ divorce you. Please tell me you remember cutlery.”

  
  


“Them's knives, forks and spoons, right?”

  
  


Draco inhales deeply before realising this is a wind up. Harry smirks because Draco is _such_ an easy wind up.

  
  


“Just please. Do not humiliate me by mistaking a fish knife for a caviar fork again.”

  
  


“Ugh are you _still_ on about that? Look, they're both, you know – _fishy –_ I don't see the issue.”

  
  


“ _You're_ fishy. Oh! I can see mother and father; they've come out to meet us.”

  
  


“Oh joy. I'll give a little wave, shall I?”

  
  


“I _will_ chop your arm off if you dare. Behave! _Try_ and step down without falling on your stupid face. We're here.”

  
  


The carriage pulls up in the driveway and swings around to let them out in the direction of the house.

  
  


“Do _not_ stop to pet the thestrals!” Draco hisses before they step down, coming around the carriage to offer Harry a cordial arm to take as they mount the front stairway. Harry fights back a gulp and prepares to Meet The Parents.

  
  


-x-

  
  


On the whole, he reflects, after the Afternoon Tea Trial – it could have gone worse. Lucius will never like him, he knows this; but he tolerates him because he has to, he knows that it's only because of Harry that the family ever escaped Azkaban and he knows that he cannot personally take any credit for that, that he is forever indebted to his wife and son and now – to his immense gall – Harry Potter – for his very life. They do not speak unless they have to, but it is only ever frosty at worst.

  
  


Narcissa actually _does_ like Harry, although she struggles to show it. Her attempts at warmth and friendliness always strike him as forced, even though Draco has assured him that they are not. He knows now that she suspected something between them, even before Draco did, to the point where she had not only known that Harry would know if Draco was alive when the battle came, but also that his being alive was probably on Harry's account. Like Lucius too, and more so, she knows that it is her son's marriage to Potter that has saved the family from falling beyond the fall they have already taken, that their good name and continued standing with the Ministry is purely on account of this connection. Even without any personal – extremely curious – fondness, this would have been enough for her and she has always tried to make him feel as welcome as it is in her nature to do.

  
  


For Harry however, the round of afternoon meals is a series of trials worse than the Triwizard tournament. Still, with Afternoon Tea over, they have a few hours to kill before dinner and the Malfoys have steered Draco into giving Harry The Tour.

  
  


First they find the bedroom, where Harry lies face down across the bed, wailing with his head in a pillow.

  
  


“Oh grow up Potter, it's not that bad!”

  
  


“It's a nightmare!”

  
  


“No. Nightmares are when you wake up screaming _don't let it eat me_ and your left arm itches like a bitch. _Crucio_ is a nightmare, this is just Holidays With Parents.”

  
  


“I'd rather be Crucioed!” Harry wails, but he sits up grumbling and Draco perches stiffly on the bed beside him, because for all his talk he isn't entirely comfortable here either, and they both look at each other for a moment with a glance that says they both really _wouldn't_ rather get _Crucioed_ ever again. Draco closes his eyes and raises his eyebrows all at once, which is an expression Harry has never seen anyone else make, nor is he sure that anyone else _could_ and, turning this expression so that it clearly states _I cannot believe I'm doing this_ Draco hugs him, leaning into Harry just enough to give away that he might also need a hug.

  
  


“Come on,” he says after far too few seconds of hug - “Let's do this.”

  
  


“Joy,” Harry wails. “Oh look darling here's where you tried to kill me, here's where my mad Auntie tortured your best friend, and just down here are the dungeons where -”

  
  


“Potter if you don't _shut up_ I will torture _you.”_ They troop down to the front hall and just stand there a moment - “Actually,” Draco says brightly, quite pleased with how successfully he is making it sound like he is Over Everything and Doing Fine - “Just over there is where I saved your life.”

  
  


“Do you know,” Harry frowns. “Due to a sudden merciful fire you never did have to answer me about that.”

  
  


“You're not seriously going to ask me again?”

  
  


They don't look at each other, just stand in the great cold hallway, clasping hands and looking – even to Narcissa watching them surreptitiously from the staircase above – like a couple of lost children all over again. She has always had a curious secret skill for empathy, and right now she can feel the loss, the difficulty and the hurt that these memories bring back; she has always suspected that they needed to be felt again at least once, remembered like the dead so the boys can move on. It has been half the reason she kept inviting them back here so insistently.

  
  


“Well if you don't know by now, Potter -”

  
  


“God you're really not going to say it, are you? Even now.”

  
  


“I didn't _know,”_ Draco almost sounds as though he's pleading - “not then, not when you asked me afterwards.”

  
  


Narcissa could have told him; she sighs without the faintest sound, if only he had been able to ask her at the time, if only she had been able to tell him. She takes herself away discreetly when the children – yes she's not that little of a normal mother and they _will_ always be children in her eyes _–_ reach for each other and kiss.

  
  


“I love you now,” Draco whispers, as though he is still afraid there's a Dark Lord around to hear, and perhaps there is, in a way, the shadows in this room can never be entirely erased - “Isn't that enough?”

  
  


“You loved me then,” Harry insists, merciless.

  
  


“Shut up. _Please.”_ Draco blinks furiously - “ _Yes,”_ he adds in the tiniest whisper - “Can we move on now?”

It seems to Narcissa, when she comes back down in their wake, that the shadows maybe have lessened just a fraction, that Draco's tiny frightened, brave whisper left the room just a little lighter than it was before. She smiles.

  
  


All was well.

  
  


__x__

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Sequel to the last chapter, Draco gives Harry The Tour. Also Draco plays several different muggle instruments because That's My Jam tm. :-)**   
  


**8.**

  
  


In a way, a way that is amusing when put up for closer inspection, this reminds him of all those incredibly dull Saturday afternoons as a small child being dragged around stately homes and galleries by Aunt Petunia. Alright, there was usually something worth seeing in the art galleries but the stately homes had been a travesty of a waste of an afternoon, worth anything only for getting him out of the cupboard for half a day.

  
  


He wonders now, as Draco trawls him patiently through room after room, some of them with everything under dust sheets, some of them arranged in so perfect a way as to prove that nobody ever uses them, all glittering candelabra, sconces, mirrors, gilt edges and ancient furniture – what Aunt Petunia would make of Malfoy Manor. He amuses himself in a room of very old, incredibly boring portraits of Malfoys past by imagining inviting her here, introducing his nearest living relatives to the in-laws. He cannot imagine whose face would be the better picture, Uncle Vernon's or Lucius Malfoy's. He snorts out loud at the image.

  
  


“What's so funny?” Draco turns, with an inscrutable face which Harry recognises as Not Annoyed Yet but Preparing to Be - “- and if it's another intolerable reflection upon the visual representation of inbreeding I will -”

  
  


“It's nothing Malfoy, loosen your corset – I was just picturing the look on your father's face if I ever introduced him to my Uncle Vernon.”

  
  


“Pfft. Please. My father does not _mingle_ with _muggles.”_

  
  


Harry has to remind himself for the hundredth time that Draco actually _has_ improved his attitude immensely in the last few years, though at times like this it's hard to remember. Although, then again, in this case -

  
  


“Yeah, in this case I'd say that's fair,” he sighs, wondering if there will ever be an A1 sized gilt framed portrait of Uncle Vernon on a wall somewhere. _Yeeesh_ he thinks – _I'll never mention the inbreeding thing again. That's nasty._

  
  


“Mind you -” he muses aloud as they trail out of the room – although _room_ feels like it has to be the wrong word for it, some of these galleries feel like being in church, the ceilings swooping high above their heads and their voices echoing like little lost ghosts - “I think my aunt Petunia would probably approve – all of – you know – _this -”_

  
  


“No, Potter, I do not know. What's _this?”_

  
  


“You know – rooms full of stuff. Big old poncy collections no-one needs. And the peacocks. She'd dig the peacocks. This'd probably be her idea of a good day out. Hey, did you ever think of opening up to the public? You could open a _teahouse -”_

  
  


“Are you _trying_ to piss me off, Potter??”

  
  


“Yup. Is it working?”

  
  


“ _No”._

  
  


“You could probably charge about twenty quid a visit, get the English Heritage in, turnstile at the front door, gift shop in the lobby, over priced tea towels, the lot -”

  
  


“Is “twenty quid” a lot? Also, shut _up!”_

  
  


“ _Aww,_ but I'm being so funny!”

  
  


“You know what? I _should_ have told Voldemort it was you.”

  
  


“Harsh.”

  
  


“Shut up then!”

  
  


“But!”

  
  


“ No! We do _not_ need the approval of muggles; neither are we inviting the family any time soon.”

  
  


“If it's any consolation I bet my aunt Petunia knows _all_ the differences between cheese forks and salad knives -”

  
  


“You're not serious -”

  
  


“Chill Malfoy, I've not been being serious for the past ten minutes. Although seriously yes, my aunt probably _does_ know those things. Doesn't mean I want to see them any more than you do, although you and Dudley'd probably -”

He stops, he had been going to say _be friends,_ but realises that isn't even slightly the case, and he never even thought it, back when he was getting bullied by Draco in school and Dudley in the holidays. He had always been able to hit back against Draco, always felt a strange rush of savage pleasure in trading barbs with him that he only now as an adult really understands. More to the point Draco had never physically hurt him, apart from the one time he had kicked him in the face and even then it really didn't compare to getting the shit beaten out him by Dudley and friends every summer. No, Draco would hate Dudley for the uncouth idiot he was and Dudley would bully Draco as mercilessly as he had Harry. He feels his love for Draco wash over him in a great rippling surge, the feeling of falling all over again that hits him several times a day.

  
  


“ - hate each other,” he finishes, nodding.

  
  


“Well come on. We've only got an hour until dinner, let me whip you round the art collections.”

  
  


“Oh,” Harry sighs afresh - “Oh boy,” he states flatly.

  
  


When they walk into the first gallery, however, he wants to take his lack of enthusiasm back. The truth is – _sigh –_ the truth is he's always quite _liked_ art works. Museums were wonderful growing up, so often a place of refuge, since whilst Dudley was getting bored and whining that this was all crap and dull and couldn't they go somewhere _fun_ instead, he had usually managed to wander off and find a painting or several that he rather liked and – alright, yes, he usually managed to get into trouble _somehow_ for standing and gazing at it quietly for a long moment whilst Dudley was in another room trying to surreptitiously vandelise a Monet – but they were _quiet_ moments, peaceful, and there was so often something interesting to be found in the light and shadow, composition and colour of the pieces. In fact the first thing he cannot help but notice is the familiarity of style – moreover the _stillness_ of the paintings on these walls -

  
  


“These are – this is muggle art!” he cannot help but exclaim.

  
  


“Weird isn't it? Never could get used to it – kind of creepy how it never _moves._ ”

  
  


“ _Why_ do you have these? Oh my god, is that an actual Boticelli?”

  
  


“I dunno – who's Boticelli? And it's more like _when_ we got them – we've been collecting for around the last ten hundred years.”

  
  


“It could be – bigger, I guess? For a thousand years of collecting?”

  
  


“Technically we stopped – after the international statute of wizarding secrecy in 1692 – we weren't supposed to any more – until then it was easy, and we rescued a lot from this mad wizard who was posing as a muggle priest in the fifteenth century, he cast a glamour burning all these artworks but most of them he sold off to pureblood families -”

  
  


“ _Technically?”_

  
  


“It was banned. But we got a few offers in the late thirties, early forties that were too good to miss. I don't really know the details but I'm sure you could ask my father.”

  
  


“Yep. I will absolutely be doing that any time soon. Chatting to your father about art. Yup. Mmm hmm. Completely.”

  
  


“Some of these -” he looks around the gallery in wonder - “Some of these are quite famously presumed missing, you know.”

  
  


“So?”

  
  


“I don't get it. You'll hate muggles – I mean in the shit on them from a great height sense – why would you collect their art works?”

  
  


“Court standing, mostly,” Draco shrugs.

  
  


“You went to court?”

  
  


“Only up until the seventeenth century, so obviously not me personally. But also, it was _fun –_ you know like when you read those silly stories in the papers about monkeys chucking paint at paper and people selling it for millions of – what was it? Pounds?”

  
  


“Yeah I'm gonna – pretend you didn't make that comparison.”

  
  


Draco shrugs one shoulder and walks through coolly -

  
  


“Shall we?”

  
  


They traipse through two more rooms of paintings, a long gallery that apparently was once – and is still very occasionally- used as an upper ballroom, another hallway full of sculpture and a music room that makes Harry have to fight hard not to say _wow_ out loud. Petunia had thought she was fancy for having an old Upright Piano that nobody could play in one corner of the sitting room. But this – he shakes his head, wandering between gilt and glass cabinets of string and wind instruments – it's just – just – well if Ron was here Harry suspects the word he would use would be _mental –_ which doesn't seem entirely wrong.

  
  


“Look -” Draco draws his attention to one of the violins - “That one's a seventeenth century stradi – stradi – something – I forget, anyway, apparently it's quite good.”

  
  


Harry screeches internally and a sort of strangled _eeeeeee_ noise escapes him.

  
  


“Has anyone – even – ever – played it?” he finally manages to stammer out.

  
  


“Few times,” Draco shrugged.

  
  


“Who?”

  
  


“Um. Me actually.” Well this is a first; Harry raises a curious eyebrow – for once, Draco actually sounds _modest._ He feels more than half tempted to check him for signs of fever.

  
  


“ _You_ play the violin?”

  
  


“It's not my favourite. I prefer the piano – and that one -” he points at the huge classical harp in the top corner.

  
  


“Seriously?”

  
  


“Yes _seriously,_ Potter. Father arranged for me to have lessons when I was little.”

  
  


“From – muggles?”

  
  


“Of _course_ not -” Ah thank goodness, Harry thinks, he's fine, he can hear the scorn coming back - “- there are still wizards out there who know how if you know where to look. Of course, I don't know -” he finds himself drawn towards the stool at the central grand piano as he talks, betraying an incredibly shy enthusiasm that makes Harry feel like he ought to hold his breath - “I don't know if I'm any _good._ Maybe you can tell me.”

  
  


His forehead creases ever so slightly as he opens the lid and quite lovingly touches the black and white keys with gentle fingers, the softness of which touch might have surprised anybody else. He plays a couple of notes and then haltingly a few slow opening bars, falteringly trying to rememember the pattern at the back of his mind. It starts to drift up from the keys like lanterns being let off into a night sky, and Harry finds himself smiling at the sound, like magic swelling cautiously in the room, like something over-large but very gentle trying to pad quietly through the halls, something soft and shy like the moon hiding behind a cloudy sky – a nocturne, has to be, maybe Chopin – dragging up memories of classic FM in the kitchen, Sunday afternoons at Privet Drive. It's like a spell and he is enchanted by the caster, riding on the the notes, watching those slender fingers glide across the ivory – Draco's face pale and thoughtful, half in a dream, with eyes like two bright stars and _oh,_ he thinks, with a swell of the heart like a swell of melody. _I love him, I love him – love like breathing, love like the need for air –_ Draco breaks off after maybe two minutes and Harry feels his soul keen just for a moment for loss of music.

  
  


“Something like that -” Draco shrugs, trying to make it look as though he doesn't care. He's so bloody transparent, Harry thinks, like he's made of glass, spun sugar, twisted crystal, beautiful and completely see through. He cares. He cares very much, he always has and it's always been his problem. Too much sensitivity; they really are so very alike. Draco's still looking at him for a comment and if he doesn't say something within seconds Harry just knows he'll get stroppy, reading silence as condemnation.

  
  


“It's beautiful,” he says. Draco still looks at him suspiciously. “I mean it. You're good. You should play more often.”

  
  


“Maybe,” Draco shrugs again - “If you want me to”.

  
  


Well _that_ translates as Draco desperately wanting to. Marriage is teaching Harry so many things so fast.

  
  


“I do,” he says, making a mental note to surprise him with a piano in the cottage as soon as he can after they get home. He wants suddenly and terribly to tell Draco how beautiful he is, how much he wants him right now – a thought no sooner heard in his own head than it is burning his cheeks and he thinks several things at the exact same time in a jumble. He thinks about having him right there over the piano stool or on the cold marble floor of the music room, thinks about how little Draco can ever keep his voice down and how his cries would sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling thirty feet above their heads. He thinks how he is _not_ going to do this. He thinks with regret that they still have dinner, some kind of formal family-spending time and then supper to endure before bed. He wonders if he even _can_ fuck him in the same house as the in – laws. He knows without a doubt that he will and he aches with how much he suddenly needs this. Draco clearly sees enough of a fraction of this in Harry's face because he smirks and stands up, pushing the stool in neatly and he walks past Harry, accidentally on purpose walking into him and whispering -

  
  


“ _Later,”_ excrutiatingly in his ear before walking on.

  
  


Harry follows, hating him.

__x__

**Btw will totally consider requests/ ideas for one shots to follow :-)**

  
  



	9. Lullaby

  
  


**9.**

  
  


There are nights when the past crowds in too close for sleep, nights when the worst times seem to lurk on the staircase, crowding outside the bedroom door. On these nights Draco sits awake for a long time, looking at the thin strip of stars beyond the window where the curtains don't quite meet in the middle. Sometimes their little house seems very small to him and this is fine, different is good on nights like this. He could get scared of wide spaces, echoing rooms, scared that the snake still slithers outside the door, scared that death eaters walk the corridors with god knows what intent – he can still see their eyes the way they looked at him sometimes, the way that made him want to run away and hide but there was nowhere to go not even in his own house. Nights spent fearing the flick of a wrist and a whispered word that could mean pain, every wand a weapon.

  
  


On these nights he feels so close to waking the sleeper and giving up all pretence of bravery. He wants so much to crack and ask for help at last – help has been given because somehow his need had made itself apparent. He's not quite sure how, he was trying so hard. He wants to break and say _I was scared, I was so very scared –_ sometimes he's done this, half asleep on the other side of a nightmare but he would never disturb Harry's sleep for it, even if he were lying awake in bed, holding himself together, practically hearing the snake outside, silently pleading in his head for it to move on past his door, not to stop here, please heaven not to come in this time, to look at him, snake eyes glowing in the dark. It wasn't every night that summer, just any night. The Dark Lord did so enjoy keeping them all on edge _(Nagini! Dinner!)_

  
  


Sometimes the word _dinner_ petrifies him for too many long seconds. Sometimes he cannot help but be spotted in this stupid fear. The first time it almost led to a row (“Why are you looking at me like that? All I said was -”

  
  


“I know what you said. You don't have to repeat it”

  
  


“I don't get why you're being so shirty. I only asked you what you wanted for dinner.”

  
  


“Yeah – I really don't like that word?”

  
  


“Shirty?”

  
  


“- _dinner”_

  
  


It was years ago now. It had been the first time he had told Harry about what happened to their old Muggle studies teacher. He had ended up crying messily into his chest and apologising in a flood, just _I'msorryi'msorryi'msorry_ over and over until Harry had actually got quite scared, like Draco was apologising for Burbage's death, for everything he had ever failed to do, every wrong choice either of them had ever made, for Voldemort, for the war itself and maybe he had felt responsible, maybe after all he had been -)

  
  


On nights like this it feels like he might have been. Like he could not get a thing right in his life and the movement of the curtain in the breeze is the shiver of snakeskin along the floor and his left arm itches in persistent reminder of a boy who fucked up and he wants so much just to be told he got something right, just once, that he might deserve this life that still bewilders him with it's happiness and levity.

  
  


And he's selfish but never so selfish he would wake someone else who gets nightmares up when they are sleeping peacefully this time.

  
  


Except they're not.

  
  


Because this time it's Harry who whimpers in his sleep and Draco who turns to hold on to him. Time and again back and forth this never ending stream of nightmare and comfort. Harry responds well to touch, settling into it like a cat into a stroke. Draco sighs, resting his cheek against the head which turns on the pillow, untameable hair tickling his nose and lips. He hears his own voice _shhh love shhh, everything's alright_ because it is now, it is now, it is and all the things that fucked them up, every manipulative adult who twisted them and used them is dead and gone and the past is a ghost that should not still hurt but then but then but then -

  
  


Then it's night time and you wake in your bed and the ghost is standing there with outstretched hands and there's the dagger held out to you and black eyes that call to drown you in their spell again and sometimes - oh sometimes it would be so easy to take up that dagger again and cut the past across yourself trying to take out your own scars.

  
  


And this time, like every other time, whoever is the dreamer and whoever is the holder – the holding is not enough and Harry's still whimpering , twisting in his arms, this boy, this idiot, this man now that he once so loved to hate and hated to love and is now just the other half of a glorious _us_ and it hurts his heart for loving, to see half of that heart hurting.

  
  


Nonsense words and babble and the names, so often like a shrieked out prayer, a plea that will never be heard – _Remus, Sirius, Tonks, Fred, Mum, Dad, Snape –_ so many others that he carries, Draco knows now, like a dark mark of his own, no more removable than his. He wakes up, like he so often wakes up himself, eyes streaming, panic and disorientation, looking aorund him wildly, eyes eventually settling on the face close to his, leaning in until they're forhead to forhead.

  
  


“You -” he says, as though it's a miracke, breathing heavily as though he has just come from the battle itself and he has, reaching to cup Draco's face with fingers just starting to to feel the relief of it - “You. I almost lost you too.”

  
  


“You saved me.”

  
  


“ _You_ saved _me.”_

  
  


“Any time Potter.”

  
  


“You weren't asleep?”

  
  


A long pause on the edge of a longer explanation before the simple -

  
  


“-no.”

  
  


“Well I'm going back to sleep. Will you -”

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“-nevermind.”

  
  


“What? You want a fucking lullaby or something?”

  
  


“Blimey -”

  
  


“Ughff don't say _blimey,_ you sound like Weaselby.”

  
  


“Who is _still_ my friend Malfoy and shut up yeah maybe, maybe I was going to ask for a lullaby you weird nasty semi prescient fucker. I never -”

  
  


He stops rather than say it and add to the list of things he never had. Draco frowns, a memory floating up to him like a shadow flickering in a candle flame.

  
  


“Alright” he says - “I've got you. Don't say a damn word about the singing voice -”

  
  


“Aww -” Harry wiggles down and Draco behind him, settling himself through the act of settling Harry.

  
  


“Do not. Or I won't.”

  
  


“Alright.”

  
  


And he does sing, with notes like soft faltering steps, a lullaby he remembers like a half forgotten dream, well enough to linger, well enough to see his mother's face bending over him, her sweet solemn voice melodious and imperfect but beautiful as a moth at the manor house window, rocking the ancient family cradle, heavy mahogany on floorboard providing a harmony to her song. It's a lullaby about stars, about, life and death and beauty, about never being alone and though he does not sing it perfectly he feels her with him all the same, hears that better much loved voice and hopes he can pass on some of the peace of it.

  
  


When it finishes he buries his face self consciously in the back of Potter's neck, he can feel his breathing almost asleep though he smiles and murmurs -

  
  


“Sounds like -” _yawns - “_ -like twinkle twinkle little star -”

  
  


“That's all you can say?” but he swallows a laugh in his throat.

  
  


“S'pretty”.

  
  


Harry sounds on the verge of saying something else but in the next second Draco realises he has fallen asleep and with the moment and the memory and weight in his arms he realises the brush of the curtain in the wind is just the brush of the curtain in the wind and that there is nothing outside the door. Nothing lurks on the stairs or the landing, no ghosts by the bed or slithering in the hall and he's sleeping too, both of them cradled in the starlight spell of the song she spun.

  
  


__x__

  
**I got the idea for this lodged in my head listening to an extremely adorable song by Jeremy Messersmith called "You belong up there with the stars" and obviously got the image of Draco singing it to Harry having been sung it as a lullaby by Narcissa. It's here<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B6FV107tw4Y> It's heartwarming as heck. **


	10. By Any Other Name

**Heavy Draco angst, some epic issues of self worth and trauma flashbacks during sex. Alternate events set during Yr 6. Trauma flashbacks may be interpreted as non con but I've left it intentionally ambiguous. his one's basically kinda dark.**

**10\. By Any Other Name**

  
  


He never saw it coming. Perhaps when your whole world falls apart so hard you never do, never could, even if all the warning signs should have been obvious, stacking themselves up over the years. Somehow you're falling before you ever knew you'd slipped, gone from glory to helplessness in seconds and you're crying in a bathroom like the miserable wretch you never thought you could be.

  
  


Somehow, all of a sudden, the bottom had been yanked out of Draco's world and down he went. He had had so far to fall that the sickening drop is still happening, has been happening ever since he got home for the holidays to find his father imprisoned and the Dark Lord in his place. It's been a sort of sickening freefall ever since. Somehow he just keeps coming back to the useless mental refrain – _I never asked for this, I never did, I don't want this, not any of it, I don't, I don't, why me, make it stop –_ the sobs of not being able to say any of this out loud shake a body so previously unused to suffering that it shudders and hurts his ribs. _What's happened to me?_ He thinks; _where did I go? Where's the kid who went into hysterics at a Hippogriff graze?_ He wants to be that idiot again, looking at this boy here in the mirror and hating him, no clue of who he is.

  
  


It's disgusting. _He's_ disgusting, that boy in the mirror – he wants to bully him like nobody else. At least he _can_ cry here, at school, it's a relief – he hates that it is such a relief. He only cried twice before, in spite of everything, because he _couldn't –_ it just made the Dark Lord laugh. If the mark had not been such agony, he could have cried just the once, but it was worse than the Cruciatus curse and he shouldn't even _know_ that. He had learnt so much more than Occulmency over the holidays – how to keeptears to himself, how to disconnect, how to start escaping himself so that all of it was happening to somebody else, so he wouldn't have to see his mother's mask of indifference when all her husband's failures were taken out on her son.

  
  


Being away from all that ought to be better but it hardly is, not with the weight of his task sitting on his chest like a snake, coiled and crushing down on him so he can barely breathe. All these years wanting to be _Chosen_ for something – anything really, to be special, to have a part to play. Ha. Ha ha ha ha ha. They framed it as an honour, just like the Dark Mark, and he _is_ proud of it, he _can_ live up to it; _wants_ to, he _does._ He wants to smash his face into the mirror, cut off his arm with shards of glass, break his own wand and forget every unforgiveable curse, give up and see what happens -

  
  


He shudders.

  
  


And why now? Why start squalling like this _now_ when nothing has changed? He knows, but it's so lame – it was seeing Katie Bell talking to Potter in the Great Hall, and the feelings crowding him like Dementors – fear of discovery, jealousy that Potter cared enough to talk to _her,_ guilt at what he had done to her – he could have _killed_ her – and whether she is relevant to him or not (she's not) he feels violently sick at the idea of nearly ending her life- any life. It has hit him, not for the first time, but for the first time it has floored him – that he _can't_ take a life, that he's going to fail, fail and die and take his whole family with him. There is no way out without death. He digs his fingers into his inner left arm hard and it hurts and he _is_ proud of it, he _is._ It honours him,defiles him, makes him feel sullied and foul and _special_ and tainted. He wants to break his way out of his own body, smashing everything around him on the way out.

  
  


It feels like he might just as well have ripped off his clothes in the Great Hall and curled up on the ground, exposing everything soft – he could feel his own face screw up, eyes screaming _help me help me help me –_ straight up out of his chest - _talk to me, stop me, but for fuck's sake just help me_ -

  
  


But he cannot ask, and god knows if Potter would even have helped. Was there ever a time when he might have? It feels like there might have been, but it is a time now hidden behind the dreadful wall of this past term and that terrible cruel summer. _Help me – save me – stop me – speak to me –_ his heart has been howling it for the past half year and it shakes up out of him now in this stupid flood of tears.

  
  


“I know what you did, Malfoy.”

  
  


He whips around, reaches for his wand. It isn't there.

  
  


“Fuck off, Potter.”

  
  


But isn't this what he wanted? Hadn't he just begged Potter to follow him with everything but words? Why, after all, did he want help – if he _did_ want help from this source, and not an actual friend? What was he thinking. _Nice one Malfoy –_ there's a bullying first year in him still but it turns itself on himself – _tell help to fuck off when you've just asked for it. Baby._

  
  


“No. No I don't think I will.”

  
  


“Fuck off. You don't know _anything.”_

  
  


“I know you're up to something.”

  
  


“Yeah? Come to stop me, have you?” _(Stop me, oh please, stop me, stop me, stop me -)_

  
  


“Yeah.”

  
  


“Try it.” ( _Please)_

  
  


Potter takes a step forward, stops, squints like he's only just noticed -

  
  


“Why are you crying?”

  
  


“I'm not.”

  
  


“Liar.”

  
  


He takes another step forward. If he had his wand he would have magicked him to move back; they would have been fighting up and down the length of the bathroom by now. But he doesn't, and Potter's too close now, in his space; in the past this always led to furious, beautiful fumblings in broom closets and empty classrooms – but they're not stupid kids any more, and fuck knows where this can go now. He can read confusion all over Potter's face, uncertainty, anger – he wants to hurt him, yell at him, but now he's unsure of it because Draco's crying and there's something else, of course there is, there has always been something else. It hangs in the air between them, so thick you could cut it. His chest heaves with it, wants it, wants to lean in at the same time Potter does but when Potter's hand does reach to Draco's face he flinches, and it feels natural and ugh god when did _that_ happen, and how does he lose it? Then Potter's kissing him, and something unlocks just a little in his chest and he's kissing angrily back, teeth and tongue and snarl, lips curling under lips, both of them ready to tear into the other, and it's frankly the best thing he has felt all year. Somehow the hands that he puts up to push Potter away end up balling into fists in his shirt, pulling him closer, and it's like they're thirteen again grinding up against each other furiously, hard and wanting and magnetised to each other as ever.

  
  


But they're not thirteen any more and when their faces break apart Potter is glaring at him with clenched teeth and hate and confusion, his hand curled in a tight pinch at the back of Draco's neck -

  
  


“I _hate_ you -” he spits, his eyes bright and black and he tries for a split second not to say it but he says it anyway because it strains at him too hard not to - “I want to hurt you.”

  
  


Something savage and bright as the sun flares in Draco's chest, fiendfyre through his bones, satisfying as a slap -

  
  


“ _Fine -”_

  
  


“You don't even _know -”_

  
  


“I don't even _care._ Do it. Hurt me. You think you could do anything to me someone's not already tried?”

  
  


The words are out of him before he can stop them. He feels like he has just thrown up all over Potter's feet. The other boy looks at him almost as though he has. His face goes through a dance of expressions that might have been funny under other circumstances.

  
  


“ _What?”_

  
  


Like he's going to go into _any_ of the details.

  
  


“Shut up.”

  
  


There's fucking _concern_ in Potter's face, almost motherfucking cunting _sympathy._ If he looks at him like that one second more he is actually going to run away. He can see his lips move and they're going to say something fucking kind, ask him if he's alright (ha), if he can help (ha), even if god help him there's Anything Wrong At Home (ha ha fucking ha). But at the last minute he seems to change his mind, he loosens his grip on Draco's neck and his other hand from his suddenly wildly trembling arm and nods stubbornly, like he has decided (thank god?) to take this as a challenge.

  
  


“Yeah,” he says with a deep breath - “Yeah I can. Come on.”

  
  


He takes hold of Draco's hand firmly, almost painfully, leaving the bathroom, marching them both quickly to the nearest room with a sofa – some kind of tiny all purpose common room – and enchants the door locked.

  
  


“What are you doing?”

  
  


Harry looks at him with an entirely unreadable expression, moves back into the space of his breath and puts a hand back on his neck with agonising tenderness -

  
  


“Something nobody's tried,” he says, and Draco has to keep from panicking, breaking down, bolting and the gentleness of those fingers on his skin, the way Harry leans in to kiss ever so gently this time, putting aside whatever he previously wanted for some doubtless malicious purpose Draco cannot quite fathom. His hands are gentle on Draco's back and shoulders, the ghost of every half loving caress he has ever stolen teased out between his fingers. They're moving awkwardly until their legs hit the sofa and they go down, still entwined, Harry pushing Draco ever so gently onto his back and mounting him with every gesture a question that allows him to escape, though that is the last thing Draco wants to do.

  
  


“You can say no at any time, you know.”

  
  


Draco frowns, wondering why Harry would feel the need to tell him this when he never has before. He finds he cannot say anythign, terrified at the prospect of saying no, uncertain how to even begin to voice consent. Instead he says -

  
  


“I – _know?”_ as though Harry has said something stupid. He closes his eyes and lets himself be kissed, cheek and jaw and neck, gentle but urgent hands on the buttons of his shirt and it's good, it feels so good he's terrified he'll cry, terrified the idiot will feel his heart fluttering like a trapped insect in his chest. Every button undone yields more skin to be kissed and he feels himself melting into the pleasure of it until Harry murmurs -

  
  


“ _Draco -”_ and he shudders, almost spasms -

  
  


( _“Draaaco -” the voice hisses, a sinister sing – song, long and drawn out - “Come here Draco.” The rooms of the manor never felt so long, every step never felt so heavy - “Your father has failed me for the last time, Draco, someone has to pay for his sins, Draco – come closer dear boy – kneel – in your own time MacNair -”)_

  
  


_Macnair –_ the one with penchant for physical over magical punishment. Thank the stars he's lying on his back so Potter cannot see, though it hurts when he twitches -

  
  


“Don't call me that.”

  
  


“But -” he can see the surprise on Harry's face - _but that's - your name?_ \- but instead he just shrugs -

  
  


“ _Malfoy -”_ he amends, sealing it with another kiss, and it sounds - because he cannot say it any other way – just a little like he hates him again and that's good. He's not sure he could bear to hear that name again -

  
  


_(“Poor little Draco – does it hurt, my dear? That's what you get if you fail me Draco, Draco, my Draco -” it feels like he will never be able to hear his own name again without flinching, especially not in tones of tenderness, all he can hear is that voice in his head, the sweet and syrupy false sympathy, the gruesome tenderness of it, every time he hurts him or has one of the others hurt him - “You brought this on yourself, you know, Draco” - which he did, of course he did, you cannot doubt a voice like that, such self assured certainty -)_

  
  


There is something horrifyingly healing in the way Harry touches him, something that almost makes him capable of hope – if only he did not have to be so adamant on keeping his shirt _on_ even if the front is fully opened. Because weak as he feels he _likes_ this, likes every nice sensation, every moment of pleasure and he knows it would all fall apart if Potter saw his arm. Just thinking about it throws him backwards -

  
  


_(“It's an honour Draco, one you barely deserve, but I know you're going to be so good for me. Hold out your arm.”_

  
  


_And he did at first, he even managed to stop himself from shaking, but then the pain, the pain was so intense, like something trying to eat its way through his flesh, ripping up the skin so slowly, burning him with hot biting little teeth; he tried to snatch his arm back, saw that second of disappointment on that terrible face, heard that one little word he had come so very much to dread -)_

  
  


_Crucio –_ he hears it again in a little hiss of evil breath, hears it even though he's hard and shivering with pleasure as Harry's cock rubs against his, as he reaches between Draco's legs with gentle, somehow sticky fingers to make him ready for it; his head is latched onto the pain of the memory even though his body sobs out in delight. He's so stupid, why is his head doing this, going to these places rather than letting him stay where it is, where everything is good, delicious and the slide of cock going into him half undoes him already with an intensity of ecstasy and he's -

  
  


( _-shoved down to the floor again, weight on him, air thrown from his lungs and the Dark Lord crouched over him, looking into his face as they hurt him, reading his expression, feasting on his tears; he can hear his name whispered over and over in those dreadful mocking sympathetic tones and somewhere in the room his aunt Bella cackling her mocking laugh because “Little Draco's crying again!”)_

  
  


_Her laugh echoing in his ears_ – but he is here, and this is now, and they are elsewhere and this feels wonderful, just rough enough not to break him with tenderness, and he can see Harry's eyes dark and fixated and wanting him, his hands on Draco's skin, shaking just a little for the desperation of needing him, for the sweetness of having him and he wants to be able to talk and say _please, please yes have all of me, take me away from everything –_ for a moment he could believe it possible. Harry bends his head over him, absolutely covering his body with his own, pressing his forehead to Draco's like he fucking _loves_ him or something. He almost panics again at the thought, something in his gasping coming out more like hyperventilating. He needs this too much to be happy accepting it, cannot think about what it might mean, head still stuck in those spaces where he's whimpering in pain on the floor, sick with violation, humiliation, hurt. He's close, he realises, and if he looks up he'll see the green eyes black with bliss and that same closeness and they could be there together, they could be – _together? Friends? Lovers? What?_ It's too late, has to be, too late for a happy ending, if he sees anything in Harry's eyes that might redeem him, make him out to be good or innocent or _loved_ he'll just break down and never fix himself again. He starts to come thinking about every rotten use they ever put him to, thinking about being awful, worthless, vile; hating that he has to, that once again he has no other choice -

  
  


But then – right at the end, when he thinks he might have saved himself from tears –

  
  


“Malfoy -”

  
  


The voice sounds distant, as though calling him from far away, another time and place, only it's this one, this time, this place, not the one he put himself back in, the terrible one.

  
  


“ _Malfoy -”_ more insistent now - “Look at me.”

  
  


And he does, because he cannot disobey an order anymore, far too much in need of being told what to do; if only Harry would tell him every step of the way – but he opens his eyes, the voice, the person, those eyes calling him back to the present, back to somewhere safe, somewhere good, and in the end he comes thinking nothing but this, this, this, Harry looking at him with shining eyes, coming inside him, hands gentle on his skin and he shudders out a barrage of breath, filled with some of the terrible blackness that is in him and it feels like it should pollute the air but instead it just dissipates and for a few seconds afterwards Harry holds onto him like he's trying to hold him together.

  
  


“Let it go, Malfoy,” he says with a sigh - “Whatever it is, let it go.”

  
  


“I can't,” he says, and seconds later he's out of there, but somehow, not knowing how, perhaps he did let something go, unhooking a tiny snitch of hurt from inside his chest and blowing it away, hurt fluttering out from him like a paper crane.

  
  


It's not much, but he's lighter, just a little lighter, and he'll take that.

__x__

**This was really hard to write and hard to post. One of those writing moments that's a bit like getting naked for an audience; some personal issues I never dared write about before so if it blows that's why. Next chapter will be cheery and festive I promise :-)**


	11. Reasons to get a Dark Mark Tattoo #1

  
**Angst and kinda fluff, married AU - Harry finds a way to stop Draco angsting over his dark mark.**

**11\. Reasons to Get a Dark Mark Tattoo #1**

  
  


The worst thing about arguing with Draco, Harry has discovered after three years of marriage and eight years of school, is not the viciousness, the hurt caused, or barbs thrown. It's not how hard they can get under each other's skin or how predictably one of them – usually him -will end up wanting to punch the other. No, he's used to all this. The worst part is how hard Draco can take himself down these days, how suddenly and savagely he can turn on himself and rip himself to pieces, and that cuts at Harry like like a knife. He still remembers a kid who could never even have _dreamed_ of doing himself down, would never have thought he was anything other than the brilliant little shit everyone had always told him he was. He never thought he would miss that kid, but he does sometimes, he really does.

  
  


And sometimes Draco _is_ that person, sometimes he drives Harry bonkers with his arrogant self esteem and poise and perfection and snooty superior preciousness. Sometimes, he thinks he's the best thing that could happen to anybody, like his very bloody presence is doing them a favour just like the brat who offered him his hand on their first day at school. And then sometimes, sometimes he's the worst person who ever lived, alternately useless, pathetic, wretched or evil, appalling and cruel. Harry will never understand how one person can simultaneously be all of those things, however hard he tries.

  
  


They do row, a _lot._ It's fine, it's almost their love language; he realised long ago that it always had been. More often than not it goes in very pleasing directions or ends up subsiding into low key banter and more or less friendly insult. But sometimes it doesn't, and on those times the usual constant is that Draco lashes out at himself before Harry can lash back at him in a way that would have been far more harmless.

  
  


“If you loved me you wouldn't say that.”

  
  


“You – manipulative conniving little arsehole -”

  
  


“ _Slytherin._ ”

  
  


“That's no excuse – you can't just say things like that.”

  
  


“I'll say what I want, Potter.”

  
  


“Don't you always?”

  
  


“Yes. And you _don't_. You don't really love me. Anyway, why would you?”

  
  


_Uh oh._ If he was wiser he would not only recognise that danger signal but have the tact to react to it appropriately. Unfortunately he has too long a history of inability to step down from their arguments.

  
  


“Look, _Malfoy -”_ he spits it out the same way Draco spat out his - “You started this. You were being a jerk. Now you want me to start listing your good qualities just so's to feel better?”

  
  


“Of _course._ Because you only love me for my _good qualitie_ s – it's a wonder you love me at all. Oh wait – you _don't.”_

  
  


“Why do you do this? Why can't we just disagree without you assuming I don't love you? Or are you just doing this to make me give in - because I won't. That's gross.”

  
  


“Oh, you think I'm gross now?”

  
  


“I didn't say _you_ were gross – just - damn it Draco, why do you always wilfully misinterpret me? Do you want me not to love you?”

  
  


  
  


He watches that one fight its way across Draco's face for a long moment.

  
  


“Doesn't matter,” he spits eventually. “It's obvious why you wouldn't.”

  
  


“Really? Why?”

  
  


Draco just glares at him without speaking and even before he does it Harry thinks _oh no not again_ and he pulls his left sleeve down with a savage yank, thrusting out his arm, the scars still visible, twisted after all the abuse he has given it over the years, red and black and white and blistered. He has that face Harry saw for the first time when they were sixteen on the astronomy tower, that face he hoped never to see again so, utterly full of self loathing and disgust, but he sees it again every time they have this row. He grabs Draco's wrist, half angrily, half melting, thumb gently stroking the lower edge of the mark. Draco tries to yank his arm away, but Harry holds on insistently, used to this fight by now and he keeps holding on quietly until the pinched, angry face begins to crumple and Harry lets his hand slide gently up Draco's arm as though soothing over the wound.

  
  


“Yeah,” he nods - “It's just a scar Draco, just an old stupid scar, we all have them. Nobody hates you for this except you.”

  
  


Draco drops his eyes sullenly;

  
  


“ _That's_ not true.”

  
  


It's not and Harry knows it, he could have killed Rita Skeeter in the aftermath of the war, the things she said about Draco. He knows it wasn't just the papers either, even if it has all died down now. God knows it took Ron forever to accept the two of them but he doesn't care, he was past caring what anybody thought of him by the time he was fifteen. Draco on the other hand -

  
  


“I love you -” he says, kisses the words right into Draco's scar - “I love you, you're beautiful.”

  
  


“ _No -”_

  
  


Draco tries to pull away again but the attempt is weaker than before.

  
  


“Beautiful,” he says again, with a gentle kiss - “Come on – bed, and I'll give you those sodding reasons I love you, you arsehole.”

-x-

  
  


Lying awake later, Harry kisses Draco on the forehead, and he stirs in his sleep with a contented little wriggle and a sigh that makes his heart seep warm gold. He looks so peaceful in his sleep Harry could imagine nothing bad had ever happened to him. He could imagine him sleeping like this as an innocent squishy-faced first year, and he wishes with all his heart he could have protected him from it all. But it never would have occurred to him that the mean, self assured, cocky, supercilious git would _need_ protecting from anything. He was _stupid_ back then. He supposes they all were.

  
  


It occurs to him that this is going to keep happening. That however many times he kisses Draco's scars, tells him how beautiful he is, assures him that he loves him – even if he does it over and over again – there will be a part of Draco that will not – that _cannot_ believe it. He suspects too – because he knows well enough how negative thoughts run – that this part will always go deeper than the part of him that loves himself. There has to be a way, he thinks, to stop Draco dragging that mark out as proof that he _has_ to be hateable every other time they fight, and for the first time, looking at him sleeping, hand curled under his cheek, that mark the only break in his perfect pale skin – for the first time it occurs to him how he might do it.

-x-

  
  


He waits for a day he knows Draco is going to be gone the whole day, visiting his mother for a shopping day in London actually – which Harry finds quite deeply adorable – a _muggle_ shop shopping day. He's been slowly easing him into the idea over the last couple of years, finding things that Draco likes (bookshops, he's a huge fan of bookshops, _and_ it turns out, some muggle literature; Charing Cross is now a regular daytrip, and yes it can take the whole day. Draco gets testy if Harry tries to drag him out of shops _too fast_ which means within the hour. He's had to put extreme undetectable extension charms on their bags just to allow for books. Then Covent Garden was a success and he's building up to Camden market though he's heard there are still a few hidden dark magic shops up Camden market and he's not sure he wants Draco getting ideas. Not that he's _dark_ as such, he just still sometimes likes the smell of it, as it were.

  
  


So, whilst Draco is off sharing some of this with mother (Lucius could _not_ be persuaded, however much he knows better than to share his worst opinions these days) Harry grits his teeth and swings his plan into action. Then, that night when Draco gets home, he picks a fight with him on purpose. Draco's always easy to bait; he's known this since first year, it's something they have in common after all, and it works like a charm.

  
  


Only this time when Draco pulls back his sleeve to show the Dark Mark, Harry shows him _his._

  
  


“ _What?”_

  
  


Draco drops his arm instantly, he's so shocked, and blinks repeatedly in a way Harry cannot help but find ridiculously funny. He's quite proud of how it's turned out to be honest, though it took several healing charms when he got home to race through the scarring process.

  
  


“What -” Draco repeats, stumbling for words - “The fuck – Potter?”

  
  


“Now you can't say I don't love you because of _yours -”_

  
  


“How does that even -”

  
  


“- because then I can say you don't love me because of _mine.”_

  
  


“But – but – but – are you – taking the fucking piss, Potter?”

  
  


“Yeah, sure Malfoy. I go and get a permanent tattoo of something like this just to take the piss. Absolutely, you tosser,” - though he says it affectionately, even (especially) the _tosser_ part.

  
  


“You – you – I have to sit down.”

  
  


Draco drags his hand down his face and sits down heavily on his side of the sofa. Harry sits down less heavily on his. He keeps his sleeve rolled up and Draco cannot stop staring.

  
  


“ _Why?”_ he says eventually, incredulous and still disbelieving. “You – surely you hate it – I mean _you_ were never a Death Eater, you never _could_ have been.”

  
  


“Look it wasn't an easy decision,” Harry admits. “But you're wrong – you know – I _could_ have been. If I had been in your position and you'd been in mine – yeah, I could have been a “Death Eater,” - if you really think that _you_ were”. He does not tell Draco how much he _does_ hate it, how greatly his insides had baulked when he handed the image over to the man in the shop. The man had actually nodded approvingly, said it was “Cool” and asked him where he got the idea.

  
  


“I think -” Draco says slowly, looking sideways at Harry, still taking in the mark with incredulous eyes - “You're going to regret it.”

  
  


“That's up to me, don't you think? Besides, I think I'm going to get told that a lot.”

  
  


“Your friends though – Mrs Weasley – love of god, Harry -”

  
  


“They don't own me though, do they? Look, the only person who has any claim on my body other than me is you and even _you_ don't get to tell me what to do with it – well – not like that. It's true, I don't love everything this stands for -” he waves his left arm. “Maybe that's putting it mildly, but I've been looking at it for years now on you – I've seen it more in connection with something I love than something I hate; if it was going to bother me that much, it would have done it already.”

  
  


“So – you mean – this -” Draco taps his - “ _Really_ doesn't bother you?”

  
  


“And if getting this is what it's taken to make you realise that, it will be worth it. Besides, you know I had that scar there already.”

  
  


“You got yours over a scar, and I scarred over mine -” Draco muses. “It's like we balance each other out.” He says it with a tone of sarcasm that he does not actually mean, but Harry takes this as a good sign, if Draco can be sarcastic then he's probably fine. Draco picks up Harry's arm, holding it by the wrist and looking closely -

  
  


“It's darker than mine.”

  
  


“It'll fade,” Harry smiles - “Everything does.”

  
  


“Not everything.” Draco leans in to kiss him with a smile like pure sunshine and there is happiness in his eyes the likes of which Harry never hoped to see again.

  
  


Worth it, like he said, utterly worth it.

  
  


__x__

**This literally happened because my thought processes over why I would get a Dark Mark Tattoo turned into me thinking of reasons Harry would get one and this was it :-)**


	12. Resolution

**Resolution**

  
  


“Fireworks!” Hermione shouts in the tone of voice that heavily implies she has said this already and probably more than once - “I told you already!” she adds - “More than once! You're coming, aren't you?”

  
  


“Wha-?” Ron groans as she hits him with a pillow. She yells a little _urgh! o_ f frustration -

  
  


“ _You_ were listening to me, weren't you Harry?” she wails, positively pleadingly. Harry is still only just sitting up in his sleeping bag on the floor, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

  
  


“What, me?”

  
  


“No! The other Harry Potter!”

  
  


“Oh yeah. Yeah totally. Every word. What did you say again, 'Mione?”

  
  


“Argh!” Hermione yells - “You two! Milennium! Fireworks! New year! Trafalgar Square! Idiots!”

  
  


She punctuates every utterance with cushion punches shared out between the two boys, who blink at each other sleepily and shrug.

  
  


“Ain't sleepovers supposed to be fun?” Ron moans.

  
  


“With actual lying in?” Harry adds - “No offence, Hermione, but it's eight o'clock in the morning and we didn't sleep until four.”

  
  


“Eight o clock _is_ a lie in!” snapped Hermione, who they notice for the first time is already dressed, has a cup of tea and is attacking her hair with a brush.

  
  


“It – is?” Ron's face crumples in horror.

  
  


“I'd tell Draco, but he'd kick my ass,” Harry agrees.

  
  


“Uff, I swear on you both we are too old for sleep overs!” Hermione sighs.

  
  


“You – suggested the sleepover?” Harry blinks blearily from his pile of cushions, squinting at her tentatively - “In fact I said, isn't nineteen too old, and Can I bring my boyfriend, and _you_ said -”

  
  


“I said no on both counts,” Hermione agrees. “You two are a nightmare and you do not _sleep –_ also he said my pyjamas were – and I quote Harry – _a plebian nightmare of painfully muggle proportions -”_

  
  


Harry stifles a snort -

  
  


“You _did_ say his looked both evil and gay.”

  
  


“Well I don't see as that's an insult since _he's_ both -”

  
  


“Hermione!”

  
  


“Oh alright, maybe that was uncalled for. Nevertheless we heard _things_ Harry – when you were supposed to be asleep. Things I never need to hear again.”

  
  


“S'true mate,” Ron nods darkly - “Didn't need that.”

  
  


“I was quiet!”

  
  


“ _You_ may have been but -”

  
  


“Look, I've tried telling him but he's a brat.”

  
  


“You love it -”

  
  


“I swear -” Hermione starts, but gives up. “Look. Anyway. Sex jokes and pyjamas aside are you coming to these fireworks or not? You are, that's the end of it. Harry -” she adds magnanimously -

  
  


“You can bring your boyfriend.”

  
  


-x-

  
  


“She actually said that?” Draco sounds incredulous; it raises his vocal levels of posh by at least twenty percent - “Granger. She specifically and actually said _Bring Draco?”_

  
  


“She said _Bring your boyfriend_ specifically, which – given I only have the one and she knows that it's you – I'd say the odds were overwhelmingly in your favour, wouldn't you?”

  
  


“Oh,” Draco says impassively. “Yay. Muggle festivities with Granger and the weasels, I can barely contain my joy.”

  
  


Harry looks at him sideways, suspecting that this is in fact Malfoy for being actually quite pleased to be invited and positively Looking Forward To It. The fact that Draco then stretches out across the sofa with his head in Harry's lap as he continues to grumble also confirms this theory.

  
  


“Of all the awesome magical things we could be doing to usher in the new Millennium and you're all dragging me to some crummy muggle festivity -” he gripes happily.

  
  


“I'd hardly say _dragging -”_ Harry finds himself petting the sleek soft head in his lap idly, running his fingers through Draco's hair like stroking a sunbeam.

  
  


“ _Dragging,”_ Draco insists, arching a little into the caress - “ _Hauling,_ positively _forcing -”_

  
  


“Oh stop it, you're turning me on.”

  
  


“You're a monster.” Draco stretches contentedly, cat like, and beams.

  
  


“Oh and what are you? Saviour of the wizarding world?”

  
  


“Oh pfft. I saved the saviour, didn't I?”

  
  


“Twice. At least.”

  
  


“Nope. Definitely only twice. And I'm not doing it again either.”

  
  


“ _Draco -”_ Harry bends down, kisses his forhead - “You save me every day.”

  
  


If it had not sounded so heartfelt, so true, Harry suspects Draco would never have scrunched up his nose so hard.

  
  


“Gross, Potter – and what do I even get for it, eh?”

  
  


“Me?”

  
  


“Ugh. Booby prize. Take it back!”

  
  


Harry shoves Draco off the sofa and on to the floor, laughing. Draco bounces back up and hits the _stupid sodding chosen one_ with a a sofa cushion and they wrestle until they don't and kiss and kiss and kiss.

  
  


-x-

  
  


“Merlin's bloody beard on a bike!” Draco announces - “It's a sea of sodding weasels – uh, no offence, Mrs Weasley,” he adds quickly, blushing profusely when he notices her noticing them.

  
  


“None taken dearie.” She looks fondly at the boys as they join the group in the square by the lion statues; she pauses just on the verge of ruffling his hair, Harry pleading at her with his eyes not to, _take me_ he thinks _oh god take me, spare him –_ just imagining Draco's face if she tried, it makes him simultaneously want to laugh and die. Thankfully, she does not.

  
  


“Oh you're wearing your Christmas jumpers!” she says instead - “How nice.”

  
  


Draco glares down at his feet and mutters the worst _thankyou_ Harry has ever heard, but then considering some of the things he had to say about it Christmas day, he supposes he should be grateful.

  
  


“Oh, did you like it?” Molly beams, oblivious - “I never tried Slytherin colours before, you know, wasn't sure how it would work out!”

  
  


“It's um – very – nice?” Harry can hear Draco battling not to make it a question and failing. Luckily Ron and Hermione bound up to them at that point, with Ginny and George.

  
  


“Alright Harry,” Ron nods. “Git-face.”

  
  


“ _Potter -” D_ raco sighs - “Your weasel is speaking to me. Make it stop.”

  
  


“Draco, be nice. We talked about this.”

  
  


“Nice?” Ginny frowns - “Can he _do_ nice? Hi, git-face.”

  
  


“Gosh Potter, it's almost like your friends and ex don't like me.”

  
  


“Yes, be nice everyone,” Hermione says sternly - “Hi Harry. Hi Draco.”

  
  


“Wow, Granger. You somehow made that sound ruder than _git – face.”_

  
  


“Well, you make _Granger_ sound like -”

  
  


“Oh my -” Harry sighs, staring skyward as though in prayer - “It's so nice when the whole family get together for New Year. No Luna, Gin?”

  
  


“She's joining us later for drinks.”

  
  


“Going well?”

  
  


“What us? Way better than you and me – of course I _think_ that's mostly due to her being gay in the right direction and not totally obsessed with a total a-”

  
  


“Alright, alright!”

  
  


“What's that? _Obsessed_ with me, were you Potter?”

  
  


“See Gin, this is why I wanted you to hush it. He's going to be insufferable now.”

  
  


“So what's new?”

  
  


“I wish Luna _was_ here,” Draco sighs - “Sometimes _she's_ nice to me. Of course at other times she asks me if Death Eaters eat road kill but -”

  
  


“Sounds right,” Ginny nods

  
  


“That's just Luna,” Harry agrees - “I _think_ that's friendly?”

  
  


“Guys, shut up!”Hermione attempts to elbow everyone simultaneously and practically succeeds - “Fireworks are starting.”

  
  


Harry huddles close to Draco for warmth as they look up at the London sky, suddenly bursting into life with colour and light, fiery flowers streaking and fizzling across the sky. For a long time Draco stands perfectly still, moving only to slip a hand into Harry's, not even sneering or commenting on the relative standards of non magical versus magical fireworks. All around them their friends and the hundreds of strangers in the square seem very close, very connected as they gaze up at the sky in wonder, dreamy with the near magic of the light and sound and smell of smoke and sulphur. When the fireworks glitter green and gold Harry looks sideways to see the lights reflected in Draco's eyes and the play of shadow and sparkle across one pale cheek and he loves and loves and loves him. They do not even see the final burst of finale fireworks except out of the corners of their eyes, so lost they are in kisses in the middle of that busy square.

  
  


“You know what?” George says as they all start to head slowly through the crowds in the direction of the nearest wizard bar - “That was _pants._ Fred and I could've beaten seven shades of sparkle out of that lame display.”

  
  


Everyone blinks for so long in surprised pleasure to hear George spontaneously speak so cheerfully about _anything –_ it's been so long – that nobody knows what to say except -

  
  


“Well bloody _do_ it then, Weaselby, don't just bang on about it!”

  
  


“You know what?” George stops walking in the middle of the flow, claps Draco on the shoulder and grins - “I _will._ I bloody well _will,_ thanks Malfoy. You twat,” he adds affectionately, grinning - “You know what Harry? Your boyfriend's alright.”

  
  


“Um thanks? It's only taken any of you what? Two years?”

  
  


“Yeah well,” George shrugs and adds the greatest compliment Harry thinks he could have had from anyone - “Fred would have said so too. C'mon you wankers, you can buy me a fire whiskey!”

  
  


The three of them run to catch up with the others, and they tumble into the bar stamping feet and rubbing hands together against the cold.

  
  


“I propose a toast,” Draco says, chin jerked up a little pompously, but as Harry looks around the table he sees the others looking at him with faint smiles and little to no animosity and sighs a deep and happy sigh - “To the re-opening of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and you can bloody well let me in this time!”

  
  


A round of delighted squeaks and _really? George are you really?_ runs around the table, George grinning and nodding in agreement. Glasses clink so hard that the table is soon doused in fire whiskey and elderflower wine.

  
  


“Family rates of course, Weasley?” Draco raises an eyebrow.

  
  


“Aww, mate, you stepped in it there!” Ron laughs. The _mate_ does not go un-noticed by Harry.

  
  


“Double it is, Malfoy!” George grins - “Double on everything.”

  
  


“Happy New Year, you tossers!” Harry laughs, slinging an arm around Draco's shoulders who blushes, awkward but pleased.

  
  


Several rounds later Luna drifts into the bar and perches on Ginny's knee, fireworks long gone and the drinking almost over -

  
  


“Did I miss anything?”

  
  


__x__


	13. Do you trust me?

**Written for the fic prompt "Do You Trust Me?" on tumblr. But my brain went a bit dark with it so TW for attempted suicide. Happy ending, eighth year AU set in the first week of term.**   
  


**Do You Trust Me?**

  
  


“Go on then,” Draco spits through gritted teeth, lip curling round the words - “Tell me why not.”

His face feels scourged by the stinging September wind, and he shivers, wanting warmth, wanting balance, wanting this answer desperately for all he makes it sound as though he doesn't.

“Just – please – step away from the edge?” Harry's voice is tense; this is the last place he wants to be, the last place he ever wanted to come to again, the last thing he wants to be doing – alright then, the second to last thing. Coming back to school in the first place was decision enough without finding himself bloody well _here_ again. On the top of the Astronomy tower. Convincing Draco stupid Malfoy not to jump.

“ _Is there somebody up there?” Hermione had turned away from them, halfway across the square, peering up at the top of the tower; half repaired and precarious, looking as though it could fall apart in the savage autumn wind. Harry and Ron had turned to follow her eyes and frowned – there was a figure, a tiny dark shape against the grey sky._

“ _What the crap -” Ron had started._

“ _Who -” Hermione, frowning – neither of them clicking on quite as quickly as Harry._

“ _Shit,” he had contributed, summoning his broom with a quick_ accio _and shooting up into the grey skies, battling the wind -_

Finding himself here, landing just inside, sliding in at an angle so as not to startle Draco into falling; as it is, he starts as Harry flies by, and wobbles on the edge, a look of fear in his eyes that actually gives Harry hope. He finds himself not nearly as surprised as the others would be to find himself here, supposes he should have seen this coming since the start of term mere days ago. What does he say that doesn't sound idiotic or overdramatic? Or is not this a scenario that might be excused a touch of melodrama? _Don't do it_ sounds way too dramatic in his head, but still -

“Don't,” he says - “Don't do it.”

“Don't do _what?”_

“I mean – I don't want to _jump_ to any rash assumptions, or anything -”

“Yeah. Okay. Right Potter. I just came up here for a quiet bloody picnic- now piss off, you're not invited.”

“Yeah no, you know I can't do that.”

“You can. Mind your own business.”

“You _are_ my business.”

He meant to say _this is_ he realised, not _you are – you are_ makes it sound personal, like he cares more than if it was someone else, like he's been stalking Malfoy since the start of term, making sure he stays halfway okay.

That's a lie, of course. He's been stalking for much longer than that.

“Bloody saviour with your bloody hero complex,” Draco snaps - “Maybe some of us are sick of being saved - did you ever think of that?”

“Maybe.” Harry forces himself to shrug. “Maybe _some_ of us are, but not you. Please -” he finds his voice wobbling, a tightness in his chest he does not think would be there if it _was_ just anybody else - “Please just step down from there and let me talk to you. It's hard to think with you standing there -”

“Let me make it easier for you.” Draco takes a fractional step closer to the edge.

“ _NO!”_ it tears out of Harry in a shriek he did not mean to let out - “Don't -”

“ _Go on then,” Draco spits through gritted teeth, lip curling round the words - “Tell me why not.”_

He does not step back when Harry asks, but Harry allows himself to halfway breathe because he thinks perhaps – just perhaps – he would have already done it by now if he really meant to.

“Because you don't want to.”

“ _Don't tell me what I want!”_ Draco shouts back, his voice very high; sweet Merlin, why, why so many shades of the last time they were up here? The tower was whole then and sturdy, and should not have been a place where so much could fall apart and come loose. It's crumbling now, half of one side torn away as though bitten into, but maybe – if he's really careful - something better could rise from this rubble than what fell apart last time.

“Why not?” he challenges - “ _You_ don't know. You've had plenty of time, if you were going to do it you would already -”

“Fuck off,” Draco glares, but he does not dare turn round so he glares down at the stonework, his eyes running from the wind, mostly the wind - “Fuck off, you sound just like -”

He stops. They both know who he sounds like. They both cannot say it, not up here.

“Look,” Harry says patiently - “I don't know why you're here. But you don't have to be. Nobody ever has to be -”

“You don't know – you don't _know_ what I -”

“I don't _care –_ you think there's anyone in this school doesn't have a reason to jump? You think _I_ never thought about it?”

“ _You?_ Why would _you?”_ Draco sneers, but he is genuinely astounded - “ _Saviour of the whole bloody wizarding world?_ What have you got to hate yourself for?”

“Don't be a dick, Malfoy. You have no idea. I already died, remember? And to be honest, it was the best few minutes I'd had all that year. You try waking up to find fifty of your friends dead and knowing that it's all your fault -”

“ _Your_ fault? Don't be stupid. I – I – I -” Draco's voice shakes, and Harry sees his shoulders shudder with a sob.

“You think it was _you?_ What did you ever do? Draco? What did you ever do to anyone?”

“I -” Harry can just picture the tight little frown knitted between those silver shining eyes. He wants Draco here, beside him, wants to kiss it away. Shit. It's like that, then. He had not quite realised it was like that. Of course it was, though. Of course. It always had been, just underneath everything else.

“You have no idea what I've done – the things he made me do – what I did that year – and – the last time I was here -”

“Yes,” Harry says, patiently again - “I do. I was here, and I saw a lot of the rest of it in my dreams -”

“You fucking what now?”

“I used to see Voldemort in my dreams -” Harry waves it away - “I saw you through his eyes. I saw you not wanting to do any of those things. I know what he would have done to you if you didn't. What he _did_ do. I saw you not be able to kill -” he takes a deep breath - “Dumbledore. I saw -”

“You saw me for a coward -” Draco spits - “- a failure – weakness and -”

“It's not cowardly not to kill,” Harry shrugs. He has thought about this for so long it seems obvious. “Sometimes it's the bravest thing you can do – it was for you, and I don't care what they told you, it wasn't weakness – it's strength -”

“Yeah. Right. I'm real brave. Should have been a bloody Gryffindor. What next? You're going to give me the part about how my parents will miss me? Sing me another one -”

“They _would._ But no, that's not the best reason, _you're_ the best reason. Think about getting warm, think about lying down somewhere soft out of the wind. Think about that little spark of joy you get when you tell me what a loser I am. Think about flying. Think about chocolate and feast days. You really want to never taste again? Or feel? Or be loved?”

“My parents -”

“I didn't mean your parents.”

Draco turns his head for the first time, looking at Harry back over his shoulder. Harry steps towards him and he does not waver; another step, and another.

“Do you trust me?”

He holds out his hand. Draco stares at it. He has had dreams like this, so many dreams of a second chance. He thinks about the question and a fresh sob heaves up inside his chest because the answer scares him and he cannot even voice it properly just nods his chin ever so slightly.

“Take my hand.”

Draco reaches for it, turning around slowly on the ledge, suddenly terrified of the drop that seemed so inviting before. He finds himself off balance, and reaches his hand out instead -

“I can't – if I bend I'll fall back, I'm sure I will, pull me down Potter, will you -”

The wave cresting inside him shivers on the point of breaking and his voice dashes in a thousand directions like scattering foam -

“Will you take _my_ hand? I – I'm afraid I may fall.”

Which sounds ridiculous, given his reason for being in this position, but he's glad, glad of the fear of falling that means he _does_ want to live after all. And Harry – Harry stupid Potter smiles and says,

“I can help you there.”

-x-

The pull down from the ledge is so strong that Draco falls right against Harry as he tumbles back into the astronomy tower and Harry, needing to grab on to Draco anyway, finds himself clutching a shivering bundle of Malfoy against his chest, clutching on to him as though it was _his_ life that had been in danger. He can feel Draco's heartbeat racing like a rabbit's, pattering and pounding like it's in his own chest.

“You took my hand,” Draco says, straightening up to find he's holding both of Harry's hands in his now.

“It's been a long time coming.”

“Only – eight years, you wanker. Does that mean -” He half smiles, a wry little twist of the mouth - “Do _you_ trust _me_ then?”

“I must be out of my mind,” Harry sighs, thinking about it, realising the answer.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes. Yes I trust you, you stupid Slytherin.”

“You know what you said about lying down somewhere warm?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you – do it with me?”

They come down from the Astronomy tower hand in hand.

**__x__**

  
**Like I said - posted this on tumblr first - if anyone wants to come find me on tumblr I'm angel-in-the-shade - likewise if anyone has a pleasant Drarry-centric kind of page give me a wave cause I'm looking for more to follow :-) I will also absolutely take prompts :-)**

  
  



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